> 


THE 


Tragedy  of  the  Unexpected, 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


BY 

NORA  PERRY. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


15227 


Copyright,  1880, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE  : 

'ERKOTYPED    AND    PRINTED 

H.   0.   HOCOHTON  AND  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  UNEXPECTED      ....  1 

MRS.  STANHOPE'S  LAST  LODGER         ....  34 

A  FOOLISH  GIRL 82 

OUR  ICE  MAN 119 

IN  THE  BED  ROOM 160 

"Mr  NANNIE  O" 202 

IN  A  STREET  CAR 232 

MRS.  F.'s  WAITING-MAID 254 

THE  RIBBON  OP  HONOR 279 


THE 

TRAGEDY  OF  THE  UNEXPECTED. 


jj  IM,  old  man,  what 's  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  's  anything  is  up,"  was 
the  rather  surly  response  to  this  ques- 
tion. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is,  there  's  been  something  to  pay 
with  you  for  the  last  three  days,  and  you  might  as 
well  out  with  it,  for  I  tell  you  what,  I  can't  stand 
this  sort  of  thing  any  longer  if  you  and  I  are  to  be 
joint  occupants  of  this  parlor." 

"  What  sort  of  thing,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 
was  the  still  more  surly  response  to  this  appeal,  ac- 
companied by  a  sudden  movement  of  the  square 
shoulders  and  an  upward  fling  of  the  bent  head 
which  brought  into  the  light  a  face  with  a  look 
of  haughty  questioning  upon  it.  The  other  only 
laughed  a  little  as  he  met  this  look ;  he  did  n't 
seem  at  all  impressed  by  it ;  laughed,  and  presently 
went  on :  — 

"  No,  I  can't  stand  it,  Jim.   That 's  a  fact.    You  Ve 
1 


2         The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

done  nothing  but  sit  with  your  boot-heels  jammed 
into  that  grate,  and  your  eyes  fixed  upon  both  of 
those  interesting  objects  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else,  for  the  last  three  days.  And  I  'm  blessed 
if  in  that  time  you  've  given  me  a  civil  answer. 
And  now  I  want  to  know  what 's  up." 

"  I  'm  very  sorry  if  I  rve  disturbed  you,  Hamlyn, 
but  I  think  a  man  might  be  allowed  the  liberty  of 
being  silent  when  he  's  not  in  the  mood  for  conver- 
sation, without  being  brought  to  book  in  this  way." 

Ned  Hamlyn  came  round  and  laid  his  arm  across 
the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  his  companion  sat. 

"  Jim,  you  're  a  trump  of  a  good  fellow  at  heart, 
but  you  've  got  a  beastly  temper  though,  have  n't 
you  ?  " 

The  good-natured  insinuating  affectionateness  of 
this  was  indescribable.  It  had  a  peculiar  effect 
upon  Jim  Marlowe,  for  he  suddenly  dropped  his 
head  against  the  chair  back,  and  lifting  his  eyes  to 
the  face  above  him,  exclaimed  with  abrupt  vehe- 
mence, — 

"  Good  Heavens !  how  like  you  are  to  her,  some- 
times." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  you  've  told  me  so  before,  Jim. 
And  so  the  trouble's  there,  is  it  —  with  Miss  Alice? 
I  thought  so." 

"  Yes,  Alice  and  I  have  parted,  Ned.  That 's 
what 's  up." 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.         3 

"  Quarreled,  eh  ?  Well,  what 's  that !  make  it 
up  again,"  advised  the  other,  cheerfully. 

u  Easier  said  than  done,  when  a  woman  tells  you 
that  she  never  wants  to  see  you  again." 

"  Whew !  Well,  that  is  rather  strong,  but  see 
here,  Marlowe,  what  had  you  been  saying  to  her  ?  " 

Marlowe  got  up  and  stamped  about  the  room. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,  Hamlyn.  I 
don't  suppose  I  was  very  amiable." 

"  I  don't  suppose  so,  either,"  remarked  Hamlyn, 
half  laughing. 

"  It  all  began  about  that  little  Colt  —  Tom  Colt. 
We  were  up  at  my  Aunt  Ann's,  Alice  and  I,  arid 
the  Colts  were  there,  the  whole  lot  of  'em,  —  beg- 
garly set.  Colt  —  Tom  —  wanted  to  marry  Alice, 
you  know,  and  he 's  forever  hanging  round  her 
whenever  he  gets  a  chance ;  and  Alice,  I  think, 
takes  a  very  mistaken  way  with  him.  She  says 
she  's  sorry  for  him,  and,  well,  really,  she  's  so  con- 
foundedly pleasant  to  the  little  cub  that  he  's  got 
to  be  altogether  too  presumptuous,  in  my  opinion. 
When  I  spoke  about  this  to  her  the  other  night 
she  disagreed  with  me,  of  course ;  and  when  we 
came  to  argue  the  matter  she  would  n't  listen  to 
reason,  —  in  fact,  it  was  no  argument  whatever, 
and  before  I  was  in  the  least  prepared  for  it  I  got 
my  conge.  That 's  the  whole  of  the  matter." 

"  Jim,  somehow  or  other  you've  blundered  aw- 
fully, for  Miss  Alice  was  very  fond  of  you." 


4          The  Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

"  I  suppose  a  man  always  blunders  when  he  dis- 
agrees with  a  woman,"  was  the  rather  satiric 
reply. 

"  He  blunders  in  the  way  he  expresses  his  dis- 
agreement, generally  ;  that 's  where  the  trouble  is." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  dare  say  I  made  a  fool  of  my- 
self, and  was  unnecessarily  abrupt." 

"  Well,  this  looks  promising.  Jim,  try  and  re- 
call one  or  two  of  these  abrupt  remarks  of  yours. 
I  want  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  thing,  and  set 
you  right." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  recall  the  exact  lan- 
guage I  used,  but  I  believe  I  conveyed  to  her  that 
I  thought  her  love  of  power  and  her  vanity  would 
seriously  undermine  her  character  if  she  was  not 
careful,  and  not  only  destroy  her  own  happiness 
but  that  of  others." 

Ned  Hamlyn  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  more  elo- 
quent than  any  words.  Marlowe  colored  a  little 
as  he  heard  it.  "  Well,  I  suppose  that  means  that 
you  think  I  've  been  an  arrogant  prig,  Hamlyn." 

"  Rather,  —  yes."  A  moment's  pause  ;  then, 
"  Jim,  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  as  you  are  to  sit 
in  judgment  and  pronounce  on  people.  You  may 
be  in  the  right  about  it  here,  but  to  fling  such  a 
judgment  straight  in  a  woman's  face !  I  don't 
much  wonder,  1  confess,  that  Miss  Raymond  or- 
dered you  off." 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.         5 

"  Ned,  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  I  may  be 
right  in  my  judgment  here  ?  " 

"  Only,  that  I  don't  know  Miss  Raymond  well 
enough  to  dispute  you." 

"Alice  Raymond  is  a  very  noble  girl,  Hamlyn." 

"  I  always  supposed  so,  and  you  talked  to  this 
'  noble  girl '  as  if  she  were  a  school  -  girl,  who 
needed  your  superior  wisdom  to  reform  her  wan- 
dering steps,  and  set  her  in  the  right  path." 

"  Hang  it,  Ned,  don't  make  me  out  quite  such  a 
prig.  I  was  hurt  and  sore,  and  I  hated  to  see  her 
demean  herself  by  being  friendly  with  that  little 
whipper-snapper." 

"  Jim,  you  're  a  great  deal  cleverer  than  I  am, 
lots  of  intellect  and  '  ability '  and  all  that,  but  I 
know  one  thing,  I  should  never  have  presumed  to 
be  so  '  cock  sure,'  as  that  fellow  in  '  Friends  in 
Council '  says,  that  my  judgment  was  so  infallible 
when  I  was  in  a  special  state  of  irritation.  I  think 
I  should  have  had  a  dim  suspicion  that  my  own 
shortcomings  might  weigh  perhaps  in  the  balance, 
and  find  me  wanting  in  the  power  to  measure  an- 
other person." 

<k  Of  course  you  would,  Ned.  Intellect !  Ability  ! 
Don't  talk  to  me  in  that  style  ;  you  're  a  long  ways 
ahead  of  me,  for  it's  character  that  tells,  that  makes 
the  man.  Ned,  I  've  been  an  arrogant  brute ; 
you  've  made  me  see  that  very  clearly.  But  I  gen- 


6          The   Tragedy  of  the   Unexpected. 

erally  see  things  that  are  for  my  advantage  too 
late." 

"  Oh.  you've  given  it  all  up  then,  and  don't  in- 
tend to  ask  Miss  Raymond  to  forgive  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Why  she  told  me  she  never  wanted  to  see 
me  again  !  " 

Ned  Hamlyn  laughed  in  his  pleasant,  quiet  way. 
Then  he  remarked  as  quietly,  — 

"Jim,  you  don't  know  all  you  might,  spite  of 
your  cleverness.  Perhaps  when  Miss  Raymond 
said  that,  she  might  have  thought  she  meant  it  for 
Jhe  moment ;  the  next  moment,  when  you  were 
out  of  her  sight,  it  was  a  very  different  matter. 
Women,  nor  men  either,  don't  give  up  their  loves 
•  so  quickly." 

Marlowe,  who  had  resumed  his  seat  by  the  fire, 
now  turned  squarely  about,  facing  the  light  and 
his  friend. 

"  What  are  you  driving  at,  Ned  ?  What  would 
you  have  me  do?  " 

"Write  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  you  see  the 
error  of  your  ways.  Confess  yourself  the  brute 
you  have  been  in  your  conceit,  and  ask  her  to  take 
you  back  on  trial." 

Marlowe,  for  the  first  time  during  the  conversa- 
tion, smiled  at  this  glib  advice,  so  jauntily  spoken. 
But  he  knew  that  Hamlyn  was  thoroughly  in  ear- 
nest, and  he  knew  that  it  was  sound  advice  he  had 
given. 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.         7 

"  Suppose  she  was  more  in  earnest  than  you 
think,  Ned,  suppose  she  scorns  me  anew,"  was  his 
suggestion  to  this  advice. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  worth  the  risking," 
was  Hamlyn's  reply,  in  a  dry  tone.  In  the  little 
silence  that  followed,  Hamlyn's  sweet,  clear  tenor 
hummed  softly,  — 

"He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  desert 's  too  small, 
Who  dare  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
And  win  or  lose  it  all." 

"  Ned,  you  think  I  'm  rather  a  poor  sort  of  a 
fellow,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  usually,  but,"  with  a  sudden  accession 
of  vehemence,  —  "I  hate  to  see  a  man  hang  back, 
and  afraid  to  risk  anything  where  a  woman  's  con- 
cerned. It  seems  ungenerous  at  the  best ;  and  at 
the  worst  it 's  a  sneaking  kind  of  caution  that  a 
manly  man  ought  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"  You  're  quite  right,  Hamlyn,  and  I  was  n't 
thinking  of  caution  in  that  way  ;  I  only  felt  that  I 
could  n't  stand  another  blow  from  that  quarter  very 
well  —  and  I  could  n't  but  hesitate  at  the  prospect 
of  going  over  the  suffering  of  the  last  few  days 


"  Yes,  I  see  —  and  I  beg  your  pardon,  old  fellow. 
All  the  same  I  don't  think  you  need  fear." 

There  was  another  space  of  silence,  and  then  sud- 


8          The   Tragedy  of  tlie    Unexpected. 

denly  James  Marlowe  started  from  his  chair  and 
going  forward  to  the  writing  table  began  to  push 
away  the  newspapers  that  covered  it  with  an  alert 
movement  of  interest  that  spoke  volumes.  Ham- 
lyn  jumped  up  at  this  indication  with  a  bright  look 
of  commendation.  "  That 's  it,  Jim.  Write  to  her 
at  once ;  you  '11  never  regret  it.  In  the  mean  time 
I  '11  go  out  and  keep  an  engagement  I  made  with 
Peters.  You  don't  need  my  advice  or  my  com- 
pany now." 

When  Jim  Marlowe  once  made  up  his  mind  to 
do  anything  there  was  no  shilly-shallying  about  it. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  write  to  Alice  Ray- 
mond, and  there  was  neither  doubt  nor  hesitation 
as  to  what  he  should  say  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  his  letter.  And  this  was  the  letter  :  — 

A^EAR  ALICE,  —  I  know  now  that  I  was  very 
pig-headed  and  disagreeable  in  my  way  of  putting 
things  the  other  night,  but  will  you  try  and  forgive 
me,  and  say  that  I  may  come  back  again  to  you  to 
prove  my  repentance  and  affection  ?  I  shall  await 
your  reply  with  great  impatience,  and  am 
Yours  always, 

JIM  MARLOWE. 

When  Ned  Hamlyn  came  in  four  hours  later, 
which  was  close  upon  midnight,  he  found  his  friend 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.         9 

sitting  in  the  very  position  about  which  he  had 
chaffed  him  so  unmercifully  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  evening  —  with  his  boot-heels  jammed  into  the 
grate.  "  Hullo,  Jim,  been  sitting  there  in  that 
cheerful  manner  ever  since  I  left  ?  " 

"Ned,  I  sent  my  note  to  Alice  ten  minutes  after 
you  went  out  —  sent  it  by  Robert.  I  questioned 
him  when  he  came  back,  and  he  said  that  he  handed 
the  note  to  the  '  General '  —  old  Dick,  you  know, 
the  black  fellow  who  's  been  in  the  family  so  long, 
and  he  promised  that  he  would  take  it  up  to  Miss 
Alice  at  once." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  Did  you  expect  that  she  'd 
answer  it  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  Ned." 

Ned  Hamlyn  gave  one  of  his  amused  good-nat- 
ured little  laughs. 

"  For  a  man  who  was  so  utterly  despairing  and 
hopeless  in  one  hour,  to  be  so  confident  in  the 
next  "  —  another  laugh  finished  the  sentence. 

"  I  suppose  it  does  look  over-confident,  Ned,  but 
my  disappointment  arose  not  so  much  from  con- 
fidence in  myself  as  in  the  fact  that  it  was  al- 
ways Alice's  way  to  respond  immediately.  The 
4  General '  has  brought  me  many  a  note  in  an  hour 
after  the  receipt  of  mine." 

"Yes,  very  likely;  but,  my  reasonable  young 
friend,  I  don't  suppose  the  correspondence  was 


10        The  Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

exactly  on  such  a  basis  as  this,  eh  ?  "  asked  Ham- 
lyn,  with  a  quizzical  look. 

"  Well,  no,  not  exactly,"  jerked  out  Marlowe, 
with  a  short,  unmirthful  laugh. 

"  I  thought  so,  my  boy ;  consequently  I  should 
be  content  to  wait,  I  think — certainly  until  day- 
light. Perhaps  by  that  time  Miss  Raymond's 
affection  may  get  the  mastery  of  her  to  such  an 
extent  that  she  will  rout  the  l  General '  out  of 
bed  and  send  him  off  post-haste  with  full  forgive- 
ness, and  an  urgent  invitatioi^  to  your  lordship  to 
settle  all  your  differences  over  a  cup  of  coffee." 

Marlowe  smiled  grimly  at  this  burlesque,  but  it 
did  him  good,  as  Hamlyn's  easy  good-nature  al- 
ways did. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  'm  an  impatient  fool,"  he  said, 
"  and  that  I  need  n't  expect  a  reply  until  to- 
morrow." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  I  should  advise  you  to 
take  your  boot-heels  out  of  that  grate,  and  seek 
4  tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,'  as  I  intend  doing 
without  further  delay  ;  so  good  night,  old  man,  and 
pleasant  dreams  of  to-morrow's  felicity." 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Unexpected.   11 


II. 

BUT  there  was  no  "  to-morrow's  felicity  "  in  store 
for  Jim  Marlowe.  The  day  came  and  went,  and 
no  reply  to  his  frank  and  tender  appeal  appeared. 
When  another  and  still  another  day  dragged  by 
with  the  same  result,  even  Ned  Hamlyn's  happy 
optimism  faltered  a  little.  As  for  Marlowe  him- 
self, he  went  about. with  a  savage  look  of  excited 
misery,  that  cut  Hamlyn  to  the  heart,  and  gave 
him  no  little  anxiety  into  the  bargain. 

"  He 's  just  the  fellow  to  do  something  rash  or 
desperate  in  his  present  condition,"  he  meditated, 
as  he  observed  his  friend's  gloomy  abstraction. 

When  a  week  had  transpired,  therefore,  and 
Ma-rlowe  suddenly  announced  that  he  was  going 
down  to  his  uncle's  place  at  Highwood  for  a 
month's  visit,  Hamlyn  felt  decided  relief. 

"  It 's  the  most  sensible  thing  that  you  could  do, 
Jim.  Just  the  thing  I  should  like  to  have  sug- 
gested." 

"I  shall  drive  up  to  the  city  to  my  business 
every  day  with  Uncle  Tom,  and  return  in  the  after- 
noon, so  I  shall  see  you  now  and  then.  Ned, 
though,"  with  a  faint  smile,  "  my  room  will  be 
a  good  deal  better  than  my  company  for  the  pres- 


12        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

ent,  I  'm  thinking."  There  was  a  slight  pause  ;  then, 
"  If  any  letters  come  to  our  rooms  for  me  you  '11 
send  them  at  once  to  my  office,  —  and  —  well  — 
that 's  all  I  believe.  Good-by,  old  fellow." 

Ned  Hamlyn's  good-by  and  hand-shake  were 
like  a  jolly  benediction.  His  thought,  as  Mar- 
lowe turned  away,  "  Safe,  now,  by  Jove  !  "  What 
he  had  feared  he  hardly  knew  himself,  but,  with  a 
great  affection  for  Marlowe,  he  had  never  been 
able  to  quite  understand  him,  —  they  were  too  un- 
like for  such  understanding,  —  the  unlikeness  of 
opposites.  which  is  the  basis  of  friendships  that 
never  lose  their  charm.  From  this  lack  of  under- 
standing, therefore,  often  arose  a  feeling  of  per- 
plexity in  Hamlyn's  mind  in  regard  to  Marlowe, 
when  any  crisis  came  up.  He  used  to  say  laugh- 
ingly, sometimes,  "  You  are  an  unknown  quantity 
to  me  ;  I  never  know  just  how  you  are  going  to  turn 
out."  The  right  thing,  however,  had  turned  out 
now  in  this  happy,  easy-going  optimist's  opinion. 
*•  The  most  sensible  thing  that  Jim  could  do,"  he 
thought,  whenever  his  mind  reverted  to  this  visit. 
Perhaps  for  the  first  week  after  Marlowe's  depart- 
ure Hamlyn  looked  with  some  faint  expectation 
for  the  letter  that  his  friend  had  hinted  at  in  that 
general  direction  of  his  about  *»  letters."  But  this 
faint  expectation  did  not  last  beyond  that  first 
week.  It  was  entirelv  out  of  his  mind  on  the 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       13 

second,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third,  when  he  came 
whistling  into  their  parlor  one  afternoon,  and 
found  a  square,  cream-laid  envelope  upon  the  table, 
inscribed,  in  the  great  waving  chirography  of  the 
present  feminine  fashion,  to  "Mr.  James  Mar- 
lowe ; "  he  had  for  the  time  so  absolutely  put  Miss 
Raymond  out  of  his  mind  that  she  did  not  recur  to 
him  until  he  caught  sight  of  the  monogram  upon  the 
seal.  Then  he  stood  quite  still,  glaring  down  upon 
the  graceful  little  cipher  in  a  sort  of  dazed  specu- 
lation for  the  space  of  half  a  minute  or  so.  When, 
presently,  the  truth  and  importance  of  the  whole 
matter  penetrated  his  surprised  consciousness  he 
dropped  the  letter  upon  the  table  with  this  em- 
phatic ejaculation,  "  Thunder  !  "  But  he  was  not 
a  man  to  remain  inactive  long,  however  surprised, 
and  the  next  moment  saw  him  dashing  off  down 
town  towards  Marlowe's  office  with  the  important 
missive  in  his  pocket.  But,  as  fate  would  have 
it,  Marlowe  had  been  gone  more  than  an  hour. 
"  Went  earlier  to-day,  sir,"  said  the  clerk  ;  "  some 
sort  of  a  picnic  going  on  at  Highwood,  I  believe." 

Hamlyn  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  Ten  minutes  to 
five.  If  I  can  catch  that  five  o'clock  train  it 's  a 
go,"  he  said  to  himself.  It  was  one  minute  past 
five  as  he  rushed  into  the  Eastern  depot,  but  the 
train  had  been  delayed  and  was  just  moving  slowly 
out  of  the  building,  giving  Ned  the  opportunity 


14        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

that  the  careless  young  American  always  finds  suf- 
ficiently ample,  to  swing  himself  in  break-neck 
fashion  upon  the  last  car.  When,  half  an  hour 
later,  he  jumped  off  at  the  little  station  at  the  foot 
of  the  Highwood  grounds,  he  hesitated  a  moment 
in  considering  whether  he  had  better  take  the  di- 
rect way  to  the  house,  or  strike  across  the  little 
meadow  towards  the  woodland,  where  most  likely 
the  picnic  the  clerk  had  spoken  of,  might  then  be 
in  operation.  A  murmur  of  voices  decided  him  on 
the  latter  course,  for  it  came  directly  from  over  the 
meadow-land.  Following  this  track  soon  brought 
him  in  view  of  the  gay  party  just  as  they  were 
preparing  to  partake  of  their  rather  elaborate  pic- 
nic banquet.  So  absorbed  were  they  that  Hamlyn 
was  close  upon  them  before  they  were  aware  of  his 
proximity. 

A  charming  girl  in  a  pink-flowered  gown  and 
a  wide  Devonshire  hat,  who  looked  to  Hamlyn  as 
if  she  had  stepped  out  of  an  old  picture-frame,  was 
the  first  to  spy  him.  She  was  standing  in  a  half- 
drooping  attitude,  putting  apparently  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  decorations  of  the  rustic  table.  A 
gentleman,  whose  back  was  towards  Hamlyn.  was 
evidently  assisting  her.  But  Hamlyn  did  not  give 
him  more  than  a  vague  observation.  His  atten- 
tion was  wholly  concentrated  upon  the  girlish  face 
confronting  him,  and  this  not  merely  by  reason  of 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Unexpected.       15 

its  beauty,  but  for  the  singular  intent-ness,  the 
wistful  inquiry,  that  seemed  to  look  out  of  the 
soft  eyes.  In  a  moment,  however,  a  new  expres- 
sion mingled  with  the  wistfulness  as  she  said  some- 
thing to  her  companion-  "Lovers!"  commented 
Hamlyn,  concisely,  as  he  watched  the  change  in 
her  face.  At  that  instant  the  gentleman  turned 
quickly. 

It  was  Jim  Marlowe. 

"Why  Ned,  is  it  you?  You're  just  in  time. 
Glad  to  see  you,  old  fellow."  Marlowe  was  evi- 
dently a  trifle  surprised  at  Hamlyn's  unexpected 
appearance,  but  glad  to  see  him  as  he  had  said. 
With  his  hand  still  grasping  Ned's  he  introduced 
him  to  the  girl  in  the  Devonshire  hat.  "My 
friend,  Mr.  Hamlyn,  Miss  Amherst."  All  the 
wistfulness  had  now  quite  gone  out  of  Miss  Am- 
herst's  face.  She  laughed  joyously  as  she  greeted 
Mr.  Hamlyn.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  telegraph 
messenger.  Mr.  Hamlyn,"  she  cried  lightly,  "  you 
looked  so  anxious." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  very  tall,  but  I  did  n't  think  I 
was  down  to  the  average  of  a  telegraph  boy,"  re- 
sponded Hamlyn,  as  lightly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  assure  you  that  our  messenger  at 
Highwood  here,  stands  certainly  five  feet  seven, 
and  that  is  n't  a  very  boyish  stature,  Mr.  Hamlyn," 
quickly  replied  Miss  Amherst. 


16        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

"  Oh,  that 's  Lannerkin,  Marlowe  ;  Miss  Amherst 
took  me  for  Tom  Lannerkin ; "  and  Hamlyn  laughed 
mischievously  as  he  recalled  the  dandy  Irishman 
who  used  to  tell  people  solemnly  that  he  was  one 
of  the  telegraph  company's  officers.  Miss  Am- 
herst was  about  to  respond  to  this  when  some  one 
called  her.  As  she  stepped  forward,  Hamlyn,  with 
a  motion  of  his  head,  drew  Marlowe  aside,  and  has- 
tily said,  "  I'  ve  a  letter  for  you,  Jim ;  found  it  when 
1  went  home  to  our  rooms  this  afternoon.  You'd 
been  gone  an  hour,  Walker  told  me,  when  I  got  to 
the  office,  and  I  had  just  time  to  catch  the  five 
o'clock  train." 

Marlowe  flushed,  then  turned  pale,  and  the 
hand  with  which  he  took  the  letter  shook  as  with 
an  ague  chill  there  in  the  June  afternoon.  The 
two  walked  on  a  few  paces  together,  then,  recol- 
lecting himself,  Marlowe  muttered  a  quick  "  Wait 
for  me  a  moment,  Ned,"  and  returned  to  make  his 
excuses  to  Miss  Amherst  for  leaving  her.  Ham- 
lyn could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  he  saw  his  air 
of  constraint,  and  heard  Miss  Amherst  exclaim,  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  bad  news  then  !  "  There  were  a  few 
more  words,  and  then  Marlowe  rejoined  him.  A 
short  walk  brought  them  into  a  shaded  retreat,  out 
of  sight  and  sound  of  the  picnickers,  and  Hamlyn 
turned  away  as  his  friend  broke  the  seal  of  his  let- 
ter. The  moment  of  silence  was  broken,  presently, 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       17 

by  a  smothered  ejaculation,  — a  moment  more,  and 
Marlowe  cried  out,  "  Ned,  look  here."  The  voice 
was  broken,  and  there  were  tears  in  Jim  Marlowe's 
eyes. 

"  What,  she  has  n't  waited  all  this  time  to  turn 
upon  you  ?  "  blurted  out  Hamlyn,  taking  fire  at  his 
companion's  unwonted  exhibition  of  emotion. 

"  Turned  upon  me !  Ned,  she  's  been  ill,  —  was 
ill  when  my  note  reached  the  house,  —  down  with 
typhoid  fever,  and  knew  nothing  of  it,  in  fact,  until 
yesterday.  She  has  only  written  a  word  or  two, 
and  her  sister  adds  another  word,  —  begs  me  to 
come  to  Alice  at  once." 

"  You  '11  go  back  on  the  train  with  me,  then,  — 
starts  in  just  an  hour,  —  at  seven.  Don't  look  so 
forlorn,  old  man;  Miss  Raymond  is  young,  and 
will  pull  through  this." 

Marlowe  looked  as  if  he  had  n't  heard  a  word 
that  Hamlyn  had  said. 

"  I  shall  go  up  on  the  train  with  you  at  seven ; 
but  you  don't  understand,  Ned,  what  a  blundering, 
brutal  fool  I  have  been." 

"  Oh  well,  don't  worry  about  that,  Jim.  It 's  all 
over,  and  it 's  all  right  now." 

"Is  it !  My  God,  Ned,  what  do  you  suppose  I 
have  done  to  make  everything  all  wrong  ?  I  offered 
myself  last  night  to  Lucy  Amherst !  " 


18        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

"  Thunder  !  "  ejaculated  Ned  Hamlyn,  for  the 
second  time  that  afternoon. 

"  And  I  am  going  to  town  with  you  in  an  hour 
from  now  to  see  Alice  Raymond ! "  continued  Mar- 
lowe, in  a  tone  of  almost  fierce  defiance,  as  "  who 
shall  dare  to  say  I  should  n't  ?  "  "  Can  I  do  other- 
wise ?  "  he  resumed  presently.  "  Look  at  it.  Alice 
has  been  very  ill,  is  now  very  weak,  and  has  set 
her  heart  upon  my  coming  to  her,  poor  darling," 
—  his  voice  breaks  a  little  here ;  "  if  I  fail  to  go 
I  may  do  worse  mischief  than  I  have  yet  achieved, 
don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it 's  the  only  thing  to  do  now  ; 
but  what  about  Miss  Amherst?"  asks  Ned,  rather 
dubiously :  "  shall  you  tell  her,  shall  you  explain 
anything,  —  where  you  are  going,  you  know?  " 

"  No ;  I  must  have  more  time.  Lucy  is  like  a 
child  in  some  things.  I  could  not  enter  into  ex- 
planations now.  But,  Ned,  I  want  to  tell  you  how 
all  this  happened.  When  I  came  down  here  I  did 
n't  know  that  Lucy  Amherst  was  to  be  here  ;  not 
to  say  that  that  fact  would  have  made  any  differ- 
ence. But  she  is  Uncle  Tom's  ward,  and  his  great 
favorite.' ' 

"  Ah,  I  see.  This  is  the  young  lady  he  wanted 
you  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  I  saw  another  thing.  Jim,  —  that  Lucy  Amherst 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       19 

was  very  much  in  love  with  you.  But  you  are  not 
in  love  with  her,  —  you  never  have  been  ;  not  even 
last  night,  when  you  offered  your  valuable  self  to 
her.  Now  would  you  mind  telling  me  what  pos- 
sessed you  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  Ned,  I  have  been  trying  to  get  away  from  all 
my  recollections  for  these  three  past  weeks  ;  to 
get  away  from  myself  and  my  misery  ;  to  drown 
thought,  and  take  up  a  new  life.  I  met  Lucy  Am- 
herst  here,  saw  her  day  after  day,  and  —  well,  last 
night  I  saw  that  perhaps  I  might  make  another 
happy,  and  finally  find  relief  and  contentment  my- 
self, in  that." 

"  Lord !  Jim,  when  you  went  off  three  weeks 
ago  I  said  to  myself  it  was  the  most  sensible  thing 
you  could  do.  I  thought  you  were  safe  then,  for 
I  'd  had  a  fear  all  along  that  you  were  capable  of 
any  rashness.  Safe  !  And  here  you  've  been  get- 
ting into  this  fix." 

"  You  can't  be  harder  on  me  than  I  am  on  my- 
self, Ned.  But  remember,  I  had  given  up  all  hopes 
in  the  other  direction.  I  thought  all  was  lost  there, 
and  —  I  was  desperate." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  hard  on  you,  old  man,  that 
is  n't  what  I  meant ;  it 's  only  that  I  'm  so  awfully 
sorry  for  you." 

"  You  're  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  Ned ;  the 
best  friend  a  man  ever  had.  If  I  could  take  on 


20        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

something  of  your  temperance  and  serenity  of  nat- 
ure I  should  be  a  wiser  as  well  as  a  happier  man." 
As  he  spoke  Marlowe  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
on  the  other's  shoulder,  and  the  two  sat  thus  to- 
gether, saying  little,  until  they  were  suddenly  sur- 
prised by  a  sound  of  voices,*  and  in  another  moment 
Miss  Amherst  and  a  young  companion  stood  before 
them. 

u  Mr.  Hamlyn,  what  do  you  mean  by  running 
away  with  your  friend  in  this  manner,  or  what  does 
your  friend  mean  by  running  away  with  you  ?  " 

Her  tones  were  laughing,  but  there  was  an  anx- 
ious look  in  her  face. 

Marlowe  went  forward  a  step  or  two  to  meet 
her.  "Lucy,  Hamlyn  has  brought  me  some  news 
which  may  turn  out  very  bad  news  if  I  don't  go  to 
town  at  once  —  to  see  about  it.  Will  you  excuse 
me  to  all  the  rest,  and  say  to  Uncle  Tom  that  I 
sha'n't  be  back  to-night!  Come,  walk  up  to  the 
house  with  me,  —  we  must  be  off  at  seven.  Ham- 
lyn," looking  over  his  shoulder  to  that  young 
man,  who  was  considerately  occupying  the  attention 
of  Miss  Amherst's  companion,  "  perhaps,  if  Miss 
Wilder  will  show  you  the  path,  you  might  as  well 
be  on  your  way  to  the  station  now,  by  the  brook 
bridge ;  we  have  n't  much  time,  and  you  have  had 
enough  of  hurrying  for  one  night,  with  the  ther- 
mometer at  seventy-eight." 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       21 

Hamlyn  turned  away  with  Miss  Wilder,  —  that 
sprightly  young  woman  glancing  mischievously  at 
her  escort  to  see  if  he  appreciated  "  the  situation," 
as  she  termed  it.  All  the  way  to  the  station  she 
was  full  of  her  airy  little  gayeties.  At  another  time 
Ned  Hamlyn  would  have  found  her  "  a  nice,  jolly 
little  thing,"  but  now  she  jarred  upon  him,  and  he 
thought  impatiently,  "  Lord,  what  fools  girls  are  !  " 


III. 

A  WEEK  after  this,  Ned  Hamlyn  received 
through  the  post  a  very  dainty-looking  little  mis- 
sive inscribed  in  a  delicate  feminine  hand.  He  was 
in  something  of  a  hurry,  and  tossed  it  down  at  the 
first  glance  with  the  words,  "  Another  of  those 
confounded  Kettledrums,  I  suppose,  where  a  fel- 
low loses  his  dinner  for  a  lot  of  flum."  A  second 
thought  made  him  pick  it  up  again ;  opening  it,  this 
is  what  he  read  :  — 

"  Will  Mr.  Hamlyn  be  so  kind  as  to  call  upon 
Miss  Amherst  between  the  hours  of  six  and  seven 
on  Wednesday  afternoon." 

This  brief  note  was  dated  from  Miss  Amherst's 
city  home,  and  postmarked  that  very  morning  — 
Tuesday,  the  20th.  Hamlyn  had,  therefore,  plenty 
of  time  to  ponder  all  the  contingencies  and  possi- 


22        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

bilities.  It  had  clearly  something  to  do  with  Mar- 
lowe and  his  absence  from  High  wood.  Why  the 
dickens,  then,  had  n't  she  sent  for  Jim  ?  This  was 
one  of  the  annoyed  queries  that  Hamlyn  put  to 
himself  during  the  interval  that  transpired  before 
the  time  of  the  appointed  interview.  When,  on 
Wednesday,  he  stood  in  the  long,  dim  parlor  await- 
ing Miss  Amherst's  coming,  he  had  perhaps  never 
felt  so  thoroughly  uncomfortable  in  his  life.  He 
had  a  vague  idea  that  there  was  to  be  a  painful 
scene  of  some  description,  in  which  he  must  en- 
act the  double  part  of  tale-bearer  and  comforter. 
"  Lord !  I  wish  it  was  over,"  he  thought  nervously, 
as  he  fidgeted  about  the  room.  Just  then  he  heard 
the  soft  rustle  of  a  woman's  garments,  and  the  next 
instant  Miss  Amherst  stood  before  him. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  even 
for  a  moment,  Mr.  Hamlyn,"  began  the  young  lady 
so  quietly  and  composedly  that  Ned  felt  his  nerves 
steady  a  little :  "  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  was 
about  Mr.  Marlowe.  I  know  that  you  are  his  most 
intimate  friend  and  that  you  are  aware  of  —  our  — 
of  what  he  had  said  to  me  the  night  before  he  left 
us."  She  paused  an  instant,  and  Hamlyii  nodded  a 
grave  assent.  "  When  he  left  me  that  night  he  said 
no  more  to  me  of  the  cause  of  his  absence  than  you 
heard.  He  has  written  to  me  almost  daily  since, 
however,  saying  that  he  would  see  me  very  soon  and 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected*       28 

explain  more  fully.  I  should  have  waited  patiently, 
and  spoken  to  no  one  of  my  anxiety,  if  something  I 
heard  yesterday  did  not  suggest  to  me  that  I  ought 
at  once  to  know  the  truth  that  I  might  act  upon  it. 
I  knew,  of  course,  that  Ja  —  Mr.  Marlowe  had  been 
engaged  to  Miss  Raymond ;  that  it  was  broken  off 
with  no  possibility  of  renewal.  Yesterday,  how- 
ever, my  cousin  came  to  me  and  told  me  that  Miss 
Raymond  had  been  very  ill ;  that  Mr.  Marlowe 
had  been  sent  for  by  her  request ;  and  that  he  was 
now  in  daily  attendance  upon  her.  Mr.  Hamlyn, 
will  you  tell  me  whether  this  is  true  ?  I  think  I 
ought  to  know." 

"  Yes,  I  must  admit  that  it  is  true,  Miss  Amherst ; 
but  you  must  remember  that  Miss  Raymond  knew 
nothing  of  Mr.  Marlowe's  recent  engagement  to 
you." 

tf  I  know.  I  am  blaming  nobody.  But  she  had 
broken  off — had  refused  all  communication  with 
Mr.  Marlowe.  He  was  quite  free,  everything  was 
at  an  end  between  them  when  —  he  spoke  to  me." 

"  He  supposed  so,"  answered  Hamlyn,  unea- 
sily. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Hamlyn,  tell  me  all  the  facts.  I  ask 
you  this  not  because  I  have  no  confidence  in  Mr. 
Marlowe,  but"  —  a  deep  blush  rising  and  over- 
spreading her  face  —  "  because  I  have  no  confidence 
in  myself  in  a  certain  matter." 


24       The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

With  a  good  many  hesitations  Hamlyn  related 
what  he  knew.  It  was  impossible,  of  course,  to 
do  this  without  revealing  more  or  less  of  Mar- 
lowe's suffering. 

Miss  Amherst  heard  him  quite  to  the  end  with 
no  interruption  of  question  or  comment.  She 
was  silent  a  moment  after  he  had  ceased  speaking, 
then,  with  a  remnant  of  the  fiery  blush  still  on  her 
cheek  in  two  burning  spots,  but  with  the  same  con- 
trolled voice,  she  said,  "  You  have  done  me  a  great 
service,  Mr.  Hamlyn,  and  I  thank  you."  The 
next  moment  she  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  Ham- 
lyn knew  that  the  interview  was  over,  even  before 
she  concluded  in  the  same  tone  of  courtesy,  "  I 
know  that  you  will  pardon  me  for  the  great  liberty 
I  have  taken,  and  for  detaining  you  so  long  on 
what  must  be  a  very  disagreeable  business  to 
you." 

When  Hamlyn  found  himself  on  the  street  once 
more,  it  was  with  a  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  play- 
ing a  part  in  a  very  curious  dream.  He  had  ex- 
pected a  scene,  and  had  fortified  himself  against 
it.  He  had  expected  to  meet  a  high-strung,  emo- 
tional girl,  wrho  would  have  no  consideration  what- 
ever for  the  annoyance  she  might  be  inflicting 
upon  a  third  party  in  the  absorption  of  her  own 
trouble.  He  had,  instead  of  assisting  at  a  scene, 
been  the  second  in  a  very  calm  little  business  in- 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       25 

terview,  the  principal  in  which,  instead  of  being  an 
emotional,  demonstrative  young  lady,  was  a  self- 
possessed  woman,  who  had  made  him  of  use  to 
herself,  and  then  dismissed  him  with  the  gracious- 
ness  of  a  queen,  without  so  much  as  revealing  a 
glimpse  of  her  own  motives,  or  the  action  she 
meant  to  take  upon  the  facts  he  had  given  to  her. 
"  Of  course,"  meditated  the  young  man  as  he  con- 
sidered all  this,  "  the  fire  is  smoldering  under- 
neath, and  Marlowe  has  got  to  meet  it.  Well,  I 
must  say  she  has  shown  herself  a  remarkably  well- 
bred  young  person,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

Hamlyn  had  not  by  any  means  an  overweening 
curiosity  in  regard  to  other  people's  affairs,  but  it 
must  be  confessed  that  he  felt  considerable  interest 
in  the  affair  which  had  so  oddly  wound  him  up  in  its 
meshes,  and  was  not  a  little  desirous  of  seeing  the 
upshot  of  it  all.  He  would  not  question  Marlowe, 
however,  until  his  friend  opened  the  matter  again, 
neither  would  he  be  the  first  to  mention  his  strange 
interview  with  Miss  Amherst.  He  had  seen  very 
little  of  Marlowe,  however,  since  his  return.  They 
were  the  joint  occupants  of  the  same  parlor  in  the 
hotel  where  they  made  their  home,  but  each  had  a 
separate  bedchamber  in  quite  another  part  of  the 
house,  so  that  it  not  unfrequently  happened  that 
several  days  went  by  without  their  being  very 
much  in  each  other's  society.  It  did,  however, 


26        The  Tragedy  of  the   Unexpected. 

seem  a  little  queer  to  Hamlyn  when  three  days 
had  elapsed  after  his  talk  with  Miss  Amherst,  with- 
out his  hearing  a  word  from  Marlowe  concerning 
itj  for  what  did  that  young  woman  desire  the  facts 
she  sought  so  earnestly,  but  to  confront  her  quon- 
dam suitor  with  them,  and  come  to  some  settlement 
thereby.  Hamlyn  was  pondering  over  this  point 
quite  intently  on  the  third  evening,  when  Marlowe 
made  his  appearance,  bearing  an  open  letter  in  his 
hand,  and  wearing  upon  his  face  a  mingled  look  of 
admiration  and  astonishment. 

"  Ned,  read  that,"  handing  him  the  letter. 

Hamlyn  at  once,  at  the  first  glance,  recognized 
the  flowing  characters  of  Miss  Amherst.  He 
thought  he  could  pretty  accurately  judge  of  the 
reproachful  contents.  But  this  is  what  he  read  :  — 

DEAR  MR.  MARLOWE,  —  I  have  just  had  an 
interview  with  Mr.  Hamlyn,  which  I  sought  my- 
self, that  I  might  ask  him  if  the  rumor  that  my 
cousin  brought  to  me  at  Highwood  of  Miss  Ray- 
mond's illness  and  your  constant  attendance  upon 
her,  was  true.  I  pressed  Mr.  Hamlyn  to  tell  me 
the  whole  truth,  because  I  felt  that,  whatever  it 
might  be,  it  was  better  for  me  to  learn  it  through 
him  than  through  you.  He  has  told  me  enough 
for  me  to  understand  everything.  I  do  not  blame 
you, — you  thought  that  you  were  free  when  you 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       27 

asked  me  to  be  your  wife,  and  you  were  not.  It 
would  have  been  better  if  you  had  told  me  at  once 
when  you  heard  from  Miss  Raymond,  but  I  can 
see  that  you  meant  kindly  in  not  doing  so,  for  you 
did  not  know  that  I  could  be  trusted.  I  hope  Miss 
Raymond  is  better,  that  she  will  soon  be  quite  re- 
stored, and  that  you  may  be  happy,  for  I  see  now 
that  you  could  only  be  happy  with  her  ;  that  how- 
ever kind  or  tender  you  might  be  to  another,  she 
alone  has  your  heart.  It  is  not  best  for  us  to 
meet  again  ;  but  when  I  say  this  do  not  think  I 
feel  hardly  towards  you,  — you  have  meant  every- 
thing kindly  where  I  was  concerned, — circum- 
stances only  have  been  trying,  and  have  put  us 
both  in  positions  which  have  brought  about  a 
mutual  suffering  which  seems  cruel  now.  But  that 
will  pass  in  time,  and  I  shall  never  think  of  you 
but  as  your  true  friend  LUCY  AMHERST. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  was  the  only  exclamation  that  for 
the  moment  expressed  Hamlyn's  astonishment  and 
admiration.  The  next  moment  he  added,  "  And 
this  is  the  girl  you  thought  was  to  be  treated  like  a 
child.  Jim,  men  don't  know  much  about  women, 
after  all.  This  is  a  revelation  that  makes  me  feel 
as  if  we  were  poor  creatures  beside  them." 

"  Very  poor,"  responded  Jim  Marlowe,  emphat- 
ically. 


28        The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

There  was  a  little  pause,  broken  at  last  by  Mara- 
lyn, who  inquired,  in  rather  a  subdued  voice,  "  Have 
you  told  Miss  Raymond  —  about  —  about  Miss 
Amherst  ?  " 

"  No ;  Alice  was  too  weak  from  her  illness,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  safe.  Ned,  I  somehow  seem 
to  have  been  playing  a  very  weak,  ignoble  part  all 
through.  I  ought,  as  Lucy  Amherst  says,  to  have 
told  her  everything  long  before,  but  on  the  day  that 
I  received  Alice's  note  I  was  so  startled,  so  shaken 
by  the  sudden  news,  and  the  whole  matter  was  so 
confusing,  so  uncertain  ;  and  when  I  had  seen  Alice, 
and  found  how  imperatively  I  was  needed  to  win 
her  back  to  life,  my  days  were  so  full,  my  mind  in 
such  a  tumult,  that  I  put  off  the  explanation  which 
was  Lucy's  right  at  once,  because,  I  suppose,  I  was 
a  miserable  coward,  who  did  not  dare  to  shoulder 
any  more  responsibility." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Hamlyn,  thought- 
fully ;  "  they  were,  as  Miss  Amherst  says,  very  try- 
ing circumstances,  and  I  think  any  man  might  have 
waited  and  blundered  a  little." 

"  You  're  a  comforting  fellow,  Ned,"  returned 
Marlowe,  smiling,  but  with  a  good  deal  of  emotion 
in  his  voice.  Hamlyn  glanced  across  at  the  dark, 
moved  face  for  an  instant,  but  gave  no  other  re- 
sponse to  these  words.  He  knew  quite  well  the 
"  tumult  of  thought"  that  was  agitating  his  friend  ; 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       29 

but  it  was  something  they  could  not  discuss  to- 
gether, gentlemen  that  they  were,  this  great  love  of 
Lucy  Amherst's,  that  had  revealed  itself  so  nobly 
and  unselfishly  in  the  simple  lines  she  had  written. 


IV. 

A  YEAR  from  this  time  Hamlyn  was  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Marlowe's  guest  at  Highwood,  where  they 
were  temporary  host  and  hostess  during  the  ab- 
sence of  Uncle  Tom  and  his  family  in  Europe. 
Marlowe  had  been  married  six  months,  and  the 
happy  occupant  of  Highwood  about  half  of  that 
period.  Hamlyn,  upon  whom  Lucy  Amherst  had 
made  an  ineffaceable  impression,  used  to  wonder 
now  and  then,  as  he  roamed  over  the  old  place, 
how  much  or  how  little  Marlowe  recalled  the  days 
of  the  summer  previous,  when  Lucy  Amherst  was 
his  companion.  But  since  that  evening,  a  year  ago, 
her  name  had  not  been  mentioned  between  them. 
One  day  this  admirer  of  Miss  Amherst  found  him- 
self wandering  down  through  the  little  glade  that 
led  to  the  brook,  with  Mrs.  Marlowe  alone,  for  his 
companion. 

"  You  have  never  been  in  this  part  of  the  place 
before,  have  you  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Marlowe,  en 
passant,  as  they  followed  the  narrow  path. 


30        The  Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so ;  is  n't  this  the  way  to  the  sta- 
tion ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  we  have  never  taken  this  way.  It 's 
only  serviceable  when  one  is  in  the  woods." 

"  I  know,  but  when  I  was  here  last  summer,  Miss 
Wilder,  a  pretty  girl,  who  was  visiting  here,  brought 
me  through  this  short  cut." 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  know  that  you  were  staying  here 
last  summer." 

"  I  was  not.  I  came  down  on  an  errand  one 
day,  and  it  happened  to  be  a  day  when  they  were 
all  in  the  woods." 

Suddenly,  at  these  words,  a  sort  of  a  flash  of  in- 
telligence went  over  Alice  Marlowe's  face. 

"  Mr.  Hamlyn,  let  me  ask  you,  —  was  it  the 
day  you  brought  my  note  to  Jim  ?  " 

"  It  was." 

They  walked  on  for  a  few  moments  after  this 
in  silence.  Presently  they  stood  upon  the  little 
bridge.  A  rustic  seat  had  been  built  along  on  one 
side  of  it.  "  Let  us  sit  here  and  rest  for  a  while," 
said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  she  gathered  up  her  muslin  skirts  and  de- 
posited herself  and  them  upon  the  little  bench. 
She  made  a  careless  remark  or  two  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  landscape,  and  then,  with  some  quick- 
ness of  speech  and  a  heightened  color,  "  Mr.  Ham- 
lyn, I  have  always  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  — 
about  that  time,  and  —  Lucy  Amherst." 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       31 

Ned  bowed  acquiescingly,  and  his  hostess  re- 
sumed her  subject  by  inquiring,  — 

"  Did  you  admire  Miss  Amherst  very  much,  Mr. 
Hamlyn  ?  " 

"  I  had  never  seen  her  before  that  day  of  the 
picnic,  and  but  once  afterwards  —  yes,  I  admired 
her,  of  course,"  answered  Ned,  rather  in  the  dark 
as  to  Mrs.  Marlowe's  meaning. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  understand,"  was  her  quick  response, 
in  the  tone  of  a  person  who  thinks,  "  oh,  if  that  is 
all,  I  can  free  my  mind."  And  with  a  certain 
change  both  of  tone  and  manner,  a  kind  of  expan- 
siveness,  she  went  on,  "  I  knew  that  she  came  to 
you,  and  that  you  were  aware  of  all  the  facts  in 
the  matter.  James  did  not  tell  me  directly  ;  I  was 
too  weak  ;  and  even  when  he  did,  it  was  such  a 
shock  to  me." 

"  Of  course." 

"Men  are  so  different  from  women,  Mr.  Ham- 
lyn. I  could  never  have  tried  to  replace  him  so 
quickly." 

"  Jim  was  very  unhappy  and  very  hopeless  just 
then." 

"  And  he  consoled  himself  by  allowing  another 
woman  to  make  love  to  him,"  returned  Mrs.  Mar- 
lowe with  a  laugh  which  had  a  ring  of  bitterness 
in  it. 

Hamlyn  started,  and  stared  at  his  hostess;  but 


32        The  Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected. 

she  did  not  observe  him.  "  And  the  letter  that  she 
wrote  after  she  discovered  how  matters  stood  was 
the  most  adroit  piece  of  composition  that  I  ever  saw. 
Xo  woman  who  loved  a  man  with  the  depths  of  a 
deep  nature  could  give  him  up  so  calmly  ;  but  it 
had  its  effect.  James  thought  and  still  thinks  that 
it  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  letters,  written  from  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  unselfish  hearts  in  the  world, 
and  of  course  he  suffered  accordingly,  for  what  he 
called  his  selfish  impatience  of  his  own  misery,  that 
made  him  rush  into  the  affair  so  recklessly.  But  I 
don't  think  he  did  rush  in.  Lucy  Amherst  was 
always  very  much  pleased  with  James,  very  fond 
of  his  society,  and  his  Uncle  Tom,  you  know,  fur- 
thered everything  of  that  sort.  It  was  perfectly 
natural  for  him  to  do  as  he  did,  I  am  sure,  un- 
der the  circumstances.  Don't  suppose,  Mr.  Ham- 
lyn,  that  I  am,  or  ever  was,  jealous  of  Lucy  Am- 
herst :  oh  no.  We  are  very  happy,  Jim  and  I,  but 
I  hate  to  have  him  think  as  he  does,  because  it  is 
always  such  a  sore  point  with  him,  and  he  suffers 
from  what  he  mistakenly  supposed  he  made  Lucy 
Amherst  suffer,  don't  you  see?  And  don't  you 
agree  with  my  view  of  the  matter,  Mr.  Hamlyn  i 
She  turned  inquiringly  to  Hamlyn  as  she  asked 
this  question.  A  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  grass 
arrested  and  diverted  her  attention.  Hamlyn  saw  a 
bright,  welcoming  smile  light  up  her  face.  "  There 
he  is  now.  Jim  !  "  she  called. 


The   Tragedy  of  the    Unexpected.       83 

"  Thank  heaven  !  "  breathed  Hamlyn,  devoutly, 
"  I  'm  out  of  that." 

Going  back  to  town  a  little  later,  he  breathed  a 
second  thanksgiving  that  there  would  be  no  other 
opportunity  to  repeat  the  suddenly  interrupted 
question.  And  leaning  back  in  his  seat  he  looked 
out  upon  the  fields  and  meadow-lands  of  Highwood 
as  the  train  sped  past  them,  and  thought  involunta- 
rily of  the  summer  before,  and  Lucy  Amherst  in 
her  Devonshire  hat  under  those  v.ery  trees  glanc- 
ing wistfully  at  Jim  Marlowe,  for  whom  she  had 
smoothed  out  all  the  cruel  difficulties  of  his  own 
making,  wherein  she  had  been  sacrificed,  that  he 
might  peacefully  marry  another  woman.  And  this 
other  woman,  this  "  noble  girl "  of  whom  every- 
body had  seemed  to  think  such  fine  things,  had 
grudged  Lucy  Amherst  even  the  grain  of  tender, 
grateful  reverence  which  proved  her  husband's  man- 
liness. "  By  George,  what  an  unexpected  turn 
this  '  view  of  the  matter '  from  his  Alice  must  have 
been  to  Jim ! "  concluded  Hamlyn,  as  he  got  to  this 
point  of  his  meditations.  "  And,  come  to  look  at 
it,  how  unexpected  everything  has  been  through 
the  whole  affair.  I  declare,"  he  suddenly  solilo- 
quized, as  the  train  steamed  into  the  station,  "  if  I 
were  a  writer  for  the  papers  I  would  make  a  story 
of  it  all,  and  call  it,  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  UNEX- 
PECTED." 

3 


MRS.  STANHOPE'S  LAST  LODGER. 


[|RS.  ARNOLD  STANHOPE,  or,  as  some  per- 
sons persisted  in  calling  her,  Mrs.  Stanup, 
eked  out  her  narrow  income  by  taking 
lodgers.  Six  years  before,  her  husband  had  died 
and  left  her  a  fine  old  house  at  the  West  End,  and 
just  five  thousand  dollars  besides.  At  the  best  per- 
centage this  was  very  little  with  which  to  take  care 
of  herself  and  her  three  children  —  children  whose 
ages  ranged  from  thirteen  to  seventeen,  and  whose 
education  was  then  unfinished.  At  the  first  crisis 
Mrs.  Stanhope  took  counsel  with  herself  and  her 
relatives. 

"  Sell  the  house  and  take  a  smaller  one  out  of 
town,  on  a  horse-car  route,  Kate,'*  they  one  and 
all  advised. 

What  was  their  amazement  when,  after  listening 
to  them  in  apparent  needfulness  and  respect,  she 
coolly  informed  them  that  she  had  concluded  to 
keep  the  house  and  rent  her  rooms  to  lodgers. 
"  Kate,  you  are  crazy  ! "  exclaimed  her  brother-in- 
law.  "  This  house  and  lot,  in  this  locality,  would 


Mrs.  Stanhopes  Last  Lodger.         35 

bring  you  fifteen  thousand  any  day.  Arid  with  that 
sum  well  invested,  and  with  what  you  have,  you 
can  live  very  nicely  out  of  town." 

u  But  I  don't  want  to  live  out  of  town,  Tom," 
she  answered. 

"  We  don't  want  to  do  a  good  many  things  that 
we  are  obliged  to  do  in  this  world,"  Tom  Alroyd 
retorted,  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  obliged  to  do  this,"  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope returned,  rather  proudly.  "  It 's  a  matter  of 
opinion,  and  I  prefer  to  keep  the  house.  As  you 
say,  it  is  in  a  very  desirable  locality.  It  will  be  no 
less  desirable  for  lodgers." 

"  A  matter  of  opinion,  as  you  declare,  Kate  ;  but 
I  should  hardly  have  thought  that  you  would  have 
preferred  to  fill  your  house  with  lodgers." 

Then  Mrs.  Stanhope  flashed  out  all  there  was  in 
her  mind. 

"  Tom,  you  may  think  me  wild  or  Quixotic,  or 
what  you  like.  But,  until  I  am  actually  obliged 
to,  I  will  never  give  up  the  old  Stanhope  estate. 
My  Harry  is  the  last  male  descendant  of  the  name. 
I  know  it  was  his  father's  desire  that  he  should  suc- 
ceed to  it,  as  he  had  done  before  him.  And,  besides 
that,  I  have  a  sentiment  about  it  myself,  I  am 
proud  of  the  old  place,  and  I  want  to  keep  it  in  the 
family.  Much  too  proud  to  let  it  go,  Tom,  though 
you  may  think  I  demean  myself  by  taking  lodgers." 


36          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

This  settled  the  matter.  Tom  Alroyd  had  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  of  course,  but  he  nevertheless  felt 
a  good  deal  both  of  disapproval  and  annoyance. 
To  his  wife  Mr.  Alroyd  prophesied  all  manner  of 
ill-success  to  Mrs.  Stanhope's  plan.  Kate  was  not 
a  business  woman.  She  would  lose  money.  She 
would  be  taken  in,  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  and  lead  a 
vexed  and  disturbed  life,  when  she  might  lead  such 
an  easy  one,  comparatively,  by  following  his  ad- 
vice. And  the  rest  of  the  relatives,  hearing  this, 
thought  Kate  was  "  so  foolish  to  run  against  Tom's 
advice  —  Tom,  who  was  such  a  safe  counselor  in 
all  business  matters." 

Long  before  the  end  of  the  six  years  when  my 
story  opens,  Tom  Alroyd  was  forced  to  confess  that 
Kate  had  done  better  than  he  thought  she  would. 
She  had  certainly  made  both  ends  meet,  and  she 
had  saved  a  little.  If  she  was  ever  taken  in,  if  she 
was  ever  vexed  and  disturbed  by  the  way  of  life 
she  had  chosen,  her  relatives  were  none  the  wiser 
for  it.  She  never  complained  to  them.  At  the 
end  of  the  six  years  Harry  was  nineteen,  in  his 
senior  term  at  college,  and  with  a  good  chance  be- 
fore him  in  a  great  commercial  house,  whose  firm 
had  known  his  father,  and  therefore  felt  an  interest 
in  the  son.  Harry  was  nineteen.  Then  came  El- 
len, who  was  two  years  older;  and  then  Frances, 
or,  as  she  was  always  called,  Frank,  with  another 
two  years  of  seniority. 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         37 

When  Ellen  was  twenty  she  considerably  sur- 
prised her  relatives  by  developing  a  talent  for 
school-teaching.  So,  at  least,  she  spoke  of  it,  when 
she  walked  in  one  day  with  the  information  that  she 
had  been  offered  a  situation  in  one  of  the  grammar 
schools  at  a  salary  of  $600.  "  I  always  suspected 
I  had  a  talent  for  this  thing,  mother,  and  you  see 
other  people  have  suspected  it  too."  She  never 
told  how  she  had  been  waiting  for  "  this  thing  "  for 
a  year,  and  how  this  patient  waiting  and  a  really 
splendid  scholarship,  and,  last  but  not  least,  the  in- 
fluence of  an  influential  man,  who  had  been  Arnold 
Stanhope's  intimate  friend,  had  at  the  end  of  the 
year  given  her  the  situation  she  had  sought.  She 
was  like  her  mother  in  this,  that  she  never  made  a 
great  thing  of  what  she  was  doing;  never  talked 
about  it,  and  laid  before  anxious  friends  her  hopes 
and  her  fears  and  her  patient  womanly  virtues. 
But  her  mother,  who  knew  what  silent  courage  and 
persistence  she  was  possessed  of,  guessed  that  she 
had  been  working  hard  in  many  ways  for  "  this 
thing,"  and  at  the  last  spoke  of  it  in  this  riant 
manner  to  cover  her  real  anxiety  and  perhaps  dis- 
taste for  it.  And  so  she  glanced  up  quickly  at  El- 
len's information  and  asked  her  a  plain  question, 
while  she  watched  her  with  searching  eyes. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  have  a  talent  for  this,  Ellen  ? 
do  you  like  it  ?  and  shall  you  be  happy  in  it  ?  Be- 


38          Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger. 

cause,  if  you  do  not,  there  is  no  necessity  for  i%  re- 
member that;  for  you  are  not  as  expensive  nearly 
as  you  were  as  a  school-girl,  you  know,  and  I  man- 
aged then  very  nicely.  Besides,  you  are  valuable 
as  a  helping-hand  in  the  care  of  the  house." 

Ellen  colored  a  little  at  this,  for  she  knew  what 
her  mother  had  thought.  But  she  answered  hon- 
estly enough,  "I  really  think  I  have  the  talent, 
mother,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  like  it ;  you  '11  let 
me  try,  won't  you  ?  " 

**  Oh  yes,  if  you  really  are  in  earnest." 

That  was  all  the  preliminary  talk  they  had  about 
it.  And  the  next  week  the  young  teacher  had  en- 
tered upon  her  duties. 

"  What  started  you  so  suddenly  on  that  track. 
Elly  ?  "  asked  young  Harry,  rather  grandly. 

"  Oh,  my  talent,  Harry.  I  could  n't  hide  it  in  a 
napkin,  you  know,  any  longer."  And  Elly  laughed. 

"  You  see,  Elly,"  Harry  went  on,  still  more 
grandly,  ''in  another  year  I  shall  be  able  to  take 
care  of  myself  and  do  something  for  the  rest  of 
you,  I  dare  say.  So  there  is  no  need  of  your  do- 
ing this  thing." 

"  Thank  you,  Harry,  you  are  very  kmd,"  an- 
swered Ellen,  with  a  slight  twinkle  in  her'ractical 
eye  at  Harry's  swift  surety  of  "doing  something 
for  the  rest  of  you."  "  You  are  very  kind,  Harry, 
but  there  's  my  talent !  I  'm  a  little  strong-minded, 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         39 

you  know,  and  I  must  work  out  what  there  is 
in  me." 

Not  until  a  year  after  this  did  any  one  know  just 
what  it  was  that  had  started  her  on  "  that  track." 
But  on  the  day  that  she  was  twenty-one,  her  un- 
cle Tom  was  gayly  bantering  her  as  was  his  cus- 
tom. 

"  If  Harry  stood  in  your  shoes  now,  Miss  Ellen, 
it  would  be  worth  while.  But  I  can't  see  why  girls 
should  ever  be  twenty-one.  They  should  keep  in 
their  teens,  you  know,  while  they  are  girls.  Why, 
there  's  your  mother  and  your  aunt  here  were  mar- 
ried off  long  before  your  age.  Let 's  see,  Kate ; 
you  were  only  eighteen,  and  Mary  was  but  seven- 
teen. Why,  what  are  you  two  about  —  you  and 
Frank?  —  nice-looking  young  women  like  you, 
too." 

Ellen  answered  this  with  great  apparent  careless- 
ness ;  and  you  would  never  have  thought,  as  she 
answered,  that  she  was  at  all  disturbed.  Frank, 
who  had  been  playing  softly  and  fitfully  at  the 
piano,  heard  this  last  remark  of  Uncle  Tom's. 
Pretty,  vehement  Frank,  who  looked  much  younger 
than  Ellen,  but  who  Was  two  years  older,  swung 
herself  round  on  the  music-stool  and  cried  out  in 
her  little  funny,  quick-tempered  way  :  — 

"  How  can  you  talk  in  that  style,  Uncle  Tom  ? 
As  if  a  woman's  whole  earthly  concern  was  to  get 


40          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

married !  I  don't  think  you  need  be  so  proud  of 
early  marriages  in  our  family  if  mother's  and  Aunt 
Mary's  did  turn  out  well.  There 's  Aunt  Har- 
riet's :  charming  match  that  is,  isn't  it?  And 
there  's  Uncle  Dick,  great  splendid  fellow  tied  to 
that  little  doll  !  Do  you  suppose  if  Aunt  Harriet 
had  waited  until  she  was  in  her  twenties  she  would 
have  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  who  murders  the 
English  language  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth  ? 
And  do  you  think  Uncle  Dick  would  have  married 
only  a  pretty  doll  if  he  had  waited  until  he  was  a 
man  ?  " 

Uncle  Tom  Alroyd  was  n't  very  much  pleased 
with  this  sudden  attack ;  and  there  might  have  en- 
sued quite  a  tilt  of  tongues  if  Harry  had  not  just 
then  come  in  with  a  "  bee  in  his  bonnet."  When 
Harry  had  "  a  bee  in  his  bonnet "  it  always  buzzed 
very  noisily  without  regard  for  time  or  place. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  he  burst  out,  "  Rob  Barker's 
uncle  is  coming  home  from  Europe,  and  Rob  wants 
to  get  a  room  for  him  at  the  West  End  here.  And 
I  told  him  I  guessed  he  could  have  Marchant's 
room.  Marchant  's  going  away,  you  know,  next 
mouth." 

"  Mr.  Marchant,  Harry.  Don't  get  into  that 
flippant  way  of  calling  a  man  twice  or  three  times 
your  age  *  Marchant.'  It  sounds  under-bred,"  re- 
proved Mrs.  Stanhope. 


Mr*.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         41 

"Well,  Mr.  Marchant,  then.  But  about  the 
room,  mother  ?  "  persisted  Harry. 

"How  old  a  man  is  Rob  Barker's  uncle, 
Harry  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stanhope,  thoughtfully. 

"  Old  ?  Well,  he  can't  be  very  young  ;  he  stands 
in  the  place  of  Rob's  father,  you  know." 

"  Oh  ! " 

There  was  a  satisfactory  note  in  this  "Oh!" 
which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alroyd  understood  perfectly ; 
and  the  moment  they  were  outside  the  door  they 
commented  upon  it  freely. 

"  There  's  another  of  Kate's  queer  quirks,  Tom," 
said  Mrs.  Alroyd  to  her  husband.  "The  idea  of 
her  setting  her  face  against  any  lodger  entering  her 
house  who  is  n't  elderly  !  " 

"  She  's  afraid  people  will  say  she  's  after  a  hus- 
band for  one  of  her  daughters;  Is  n't  that  it?  " 

"  Yes.  She  always  remembered  what  Dick's 
silly  little  wife  said  to  her  at  the  outset." 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  she  need  n't  trouble  herself  to  dress 
Frank  and  Ellen  for  parties  when  they  grew  up ; 
that  they  'd  find  plenty  of  suitors  in  her  lodgers.  It 
was  part  malice  and  part  earnest  with  Matty.  You 
know  she  was  always  ashamed  of  Kate's  taking 
lodgers." 

"  Pshaw  !  Kate  's  morbid  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Al- 
royd. 


42          Mrs.  Stanhope 's  Last  Lodger. 

"  To  be  sure  she  is.  I  always  said  she  was,"  Mrs. 
Alroyd  returned. 

And  while  they  criticise  Mrs.  Stanhope's  "  queer 
quirks,"  as  they  styled  her  sensitiveness  and  pride, 
up  stairs  in  their  own  room  Frank  and  Ellen  were 
having  their  little  tilt  of  criticism. 

"  Oh  !  "  shivered  out  Frank,  pulling  down  her 
long,  shining  hair  with  an  impatient  jerk,  "  I  do  get 
so  very  mad  at  Uncle  Tom's  speeches  about  mar- 
riage. I  think  it's  vulgar  to  talk  in  that  way, 
Elly." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  answered  the  cooler  "  Elly," 
with  more  emphasis  than  usual.  "  Uncle  Tom 
evidently  thinks  it 's  a  girl's  bounden  duty  to  marry 
somebody ;  or,  at  least,  he  thinks  it 's  our  bounden 
duty.  I  fancied  he  'd  stop  that  kind  of  talk  when 
he  saw  that  I  was  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  Elly  !  "  —  and  Frank  ceased  her  busy  combing 
as  the  new  thought  struck  her  —  "  Elly,  I  do  be- 
lieve it  was  Uncle  Tom's  exasperating  speeches 
that  first  set  you  thinking  of  taking  care  of  your- 
self, as  you  call  it." 

Elly  colored  a  little  and  laughed  a  little. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  was,  Frank.  It  set  me 
thinking  in  various  ways.  I  saw  that  mother 
did  n't  need  but  one  of  us  to  assist  her  about  the 
house.  I  felt  that  we  were  being  'talked  at'  a 
good  deal  in  the  matrimonial  key,  both  by  Uncle 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         43 

and  Aunt  Tom.  It  occurred  to  me  that  school- 
teaching  would  help  the  matter  all  round.  But 
Uncle  Tom  does  n't  appear  to  believe  much  in  that 
kind  of  help,  I  see.  He  seems  to  think  that  the 
only  decent  way  for  a  woman  is  to  get  married," 
and  Elly  laughed  again  with  the  old  gleam  of 
humor  in  her  eyes. 

"Just  to  think  of  your  earning  $600  a  year, 
Elly ;  you  who  are  two  years  younger  than  I. 
You  always  were  a  great  deal  brighter  than  I, 
Elly.  Bless  my  soul !  I  don't  believe  I  am  sound 
on  my  multiplication-table  to  this  day.  And  when 
I  go  shopping  I  always  have  to  count  my  fingers 
in  my  muff  when  I  reckon  up  my  change  ;  I  do, 
truly." 

Elly  laughed  out  at  this,  and  Frank,  meeting 
her  amused  look,  laughed  too. 

"All  I  can  do  is  to  sweep  and  dust  and. make 
beds,  and  sometimes  fuss  round  in  the  kitchen  when 
Bridget  is  away.  I  have  n't  an  acquisition  or  an 
accomplishment  —  not  one.  As  far  as  that  goes 
I  'm  a  fool."  Then  making  an  indescribable  grim^ 
ace  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  she  concluded  em- 
phatically, "  Yes,  I  've  got  it  —  I  'm  a  healthy  fool 
—  just  that." 

Quiet  Elly  was  laughing  by  this  time  as  nobody 
but  Frank  could  make  her  laugh.  But  as  quick  as 
she  found  her  breath  she  said,  animatedly,  — 


44          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  Frank,  when  you  play 
so  beautifully,  and  sing,  too,  like  nobody  else." 

"  4  Like  nobody  else  '  —  yes,  that  is  the  way, 
Elly,  precisely ;  there 's  no  training  or  science 
about  it  to  make  it  like  anybody  else.  And  as 
for  the  playing,  that 's  in  the  same  category." 

"I  heard  Mrs.  Raymond  say  the  other  night 
that  there  was  no  playing  or  singing  touched  her 
like  yours,"  answered  Elly,  quietly. 

"  Did  she  say  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Frank,  her  eyes 
all  aglow  —  for  Mrs.  Raymond  was  great  author- 
ity, a  woman  whose  fine  natural  taste  had  been 
cultivated  to  the  utmost.  They  talked  awhile  of 
this,  and  then  dropped  their  voices  as  they  heard 
the  key  in  the  room  below  them  click  in  the  lock. 
"  I  'm  glad  Mr.  Marchant  's  going,"  said  Frank  in 
her  lower  tone  ;  "  he  's  such  an  old  Betty.  I  've 
got  tired  of  creeping  round  the  house  and  talking 
in  whispers  for  fear  of  disturbing  him.  Anyway, 
Elly,  I  think  it's  awful  dull  and  poky  to  have  a 
house  filled  with  a  parcel  of  old  fusses.  I  do  think 
mother  is  over-sensitive  there.  She  says  with  two 
daughters  like  us  it  is  better  taste  and  better  dig- 
nity to  have  quiet,  elderly  people  in  the  house.  I 
don't  know  but  it  is,  but  it 's  awful  dull,"  reiterated 
Frank,  shaking  her  head  pathetically.  "  And  no 
sooner  does  one  go  than  another  of  the  same  sort 
comes.  I  should  think  they  'd  call  it  the  Patri- 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         45 

archs'  Retreat  by  this  time,"  went  on  this  droll 
little  Frank,  with  a  suppressed  giggle. 

"  Hush  !  speak  lower  !  " 

"  Oh,  nobody  can  hear !  "  Then  for  a  minute 
Frank  was  silent ;  but  just  as  Ellen  was  falling 
asleep  she  heard  her  voice  again  :  "  Elly  !  Elly  !  " 
she  whispered,  "  I  wonder  if  Rob  Barker's  old 
uncle  will  come  !  " 

u  Stop  talking,  Frank,  and  go  to  sleep  —  do, 
dear  —  I'm  so  tired!"  Elly  remonstrated.  And 
Frank  went  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  Rob  Bar- 
ker's uncle  was  a  greater  fuss  than  all  the  rest ; 
that  he  insisted  on  the  house  .  being  still  at  nine 
o'clock  ;  that  he  corked  all  the  windows  and  listed 
all  the  doors ;  and  that  he  capped  the  climax  of 
this  by  entering  a  protest  against  her  piano  and 
Harry's  flute.  A  month  after  this,  when  she  had 
forgotten  all  about  her  dream,  she  came  in  one  day 
to  find  the  house  in  quite  a  commotion.  Not  only 
Mr.  Merchant's  vacant  room  was  being  metamor- 
phosed, but  the  side-room  opening  out  of  it. 

"  Oh,  Granny  Barker  's  coming,  I  suppose,  in 
place  of  Granny  Marchant,"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  caught  sight  of  Rob  Barker  in  the  chaos  of 
pictures  and  furniture.  "  And  the  old  gentleman 
is  to  have  two  rooms !  "  she  went  on  with  her  in- 
ward comments  :  "  a  parlor  and  bedroom,  eh  ?  " 
Then  aloud  to  her  brother's  chum,  in  the  rather 


46          Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger. 

patronizing  style  she  allowed  herself  toward  that 
youngster  on  account  of  her  three  or  four  years' 
seniority,  she  said,  "  Master  Robert,  I  suppose  this 
is  all  your  taste  ?  "  glancing  at  the  carpets  and  the 
furniture. 

"  Master  Robert "  inwardly  writhed  and  out- 
wardly smiled  on  this  sweet- voiced  personage. 

"  All  my  taste  except  two  or  three  old  things 
ray  uncle  always  will  insist  on  having."  Then,  as 
Miss  Stanhope  was  turning  away,  he  exclaimed 
suddenly,  perhaps  to  detain  that  fascinating  yet 
most  provoking  young  woman  a  little  longer,  —  for 
poor  Robbie  was  notoriously  "  spooney  "  on  Frank's 
bright  face  and  natural  ways,  —  u  Miss  Stanhope, 
you  '11  be  sure  to  like  my  uncle  ;  he  's  the  nicest 
old  fellow  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Oh,  is  he  ?  "  returned  Frank,  carelessly,  and 
then  she  went  on  her  way  up  to  her  room,  to  Rob 
Barker's  great  disappointment,  doubtless. 

"  The  nicest  old  fellow  in  the  world  !  "  she  re- 
peated to  herself  with  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders. And  then  she  recalled  her  dream,  and 
laughed.  She  could  not  but  acknowledge,  how- 
ever, that  this  nicest  old  fellow's  taste  was  not  out 
of  the  way  in  the  choice  of  pictures,  when,  coming 
down  from  her  room  one  day  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  she  lingered  to  look  at  two  lovely  landscapes 
that  faced  the  open  door.  As  she  lingered  there, 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         47 

she  heard  some  one  making  frantic  attempts  with 
a  latch-key  outside,  —  attempts  which  proved  futile, 
as  a  sudden  ring  at  the  bell  gave  evidence.  Frank 
at  this,  ran  swiftly  down,  and  opening  the  door,  said 
in  explanation,  — 

"  It  's  that  stupid  new  Biddy's  work  ;  she  will 
slip  the  wrong  bolt  when  she  goes  out." 

It  was  Hob  Barker's  face  that  presented  itself 
first  to  her,  and  that  young  gentleman  found  tongue 
to  say  at  once  glibly  and  politely,  — 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Stanhope.  But  it  was  too 
bad  to  trouble  you."  And  then,  in  another  tone, 
"  This  is  my  uncle,  Mr.  Hadley  ;  Miss  Stanhope, 
Uncle  Robert." 

Frank  looked  at  the  new-comer,  and  saw,  to  her 
utter  amazement,  a  man  rather  above  the  medium 
height,  very  square  as  to  the  shoulders,  very  broad 
as -to  the  chest,  very  firmly  knit  together,  yet  with 
the  lithe  carriage  such  as  one  seldom  sees  beyond 
youth,  and  with  a  face  that  went  well  with  all  this, 
—  a  face  bronzed  and  ruddy  from  travel  and  out- 
door life,  yet  intellectual  and* refined,  —  the  face  of 
an  educated  gentleman,  and  this  gentleman  clearly 
not  a  day  over  forty. 

Frank  thought  of  her  dream  ;  of  the  gray-headed, 
frosty-bearded  old  gentleman  who  had  hitherto 
held  peaceful  possession  of  her  mother's  house; 
and  of  her  mother's  intention  that  only  such  should 


48          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

hold  possession  ;  and  the  thought  was  too  much 
for  her  composure  at  the  moment.  She  would 
have  given  much  to  have  restrained  that  little  irrel- 
evant, and  rather  irreverent,  laugh,  but  it  was  be- 
yond her  control.  There  was  something  so  merry 
and  natural  in  it,  however,  that  it  proved  con- 
tagious, though  it  was  irrelevant.  Rob,  in  his 
"hobbledehoy hood  "  thought,  k'  She  's  laughing  at 
the  mess  I  made  with  the  latch-key."  Mr.  Hadley 
thought,  "  Nice,  merry  little  girl ;"  and  then  they 
all  went  up-stairs  together,  and  then  Frank  nearly 
burst  out  again,  at  her  mother's  look  of  astonish- 
ment when  "  Uncle  Robert "  was  presented  to 
her. 

Aunt  Tom,  as  they  called  Mrs.  Alroyd,  coming 
in  that  evening,  Frank  could  not  restrain  her  fun, 
and  so  the  story  of  the  new  arrival  was  chronicled 
in  such  merry  vein  as  only  Frank  was  mistress  of. 

"Think,  auntie,  I  fairly  laughed  in  his  face 
when  I  saw  him,  it  was  so  funny  to  imagine  moth- 
er's amazement  and  consternation." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  looked  excessively  annoyed  at 
Frank's  merriment,  and  very  soon  managed  to  send 
her  away  on  some  household  errand.  The  moment 
she  was  out  of  sight  Mrs.  Alroyd  began  :  — 

'•  Kate,  I  think  you  are  perfectly  morbid  on  that 
subject.  The  idea  of  your  supposing  that  every- 
body will  suspect  you  of  matrimonial  designs  for 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         49 

Frank  and  Ellen  if  you  let  your  rooms  to  young 
lodgers." 

"Mary,  it  isn't  merely  that  —  though  that  sus- 
picion is  a  very  common  one,  and  one  I  do  wish 
to  avoid.  But  when  we  were  girls  don't  you  re- 
member the  Traceys  ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  of  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  were  younger  than  I,  so  you  don't 
know,  I  dare  say,  what  I  knew.  Mrs.  Tracey  rented 
her  rooms  to  lodgers  as  I  do.  They  were  usually 
occupied  by  young  men,  and  of  course  people 
were  ill-natured  enough  to  say  constantly  that  her 
three  girls  were  '  setting  their  caps/  and  *  after ' 
this  one  or  that  one.  Those  horrid  phrases !  But 
that  was  n't  the  worst  of  it.  The  Traceys  were 
a  good,  old  respectable  family,  not  aristocratic  by 
any  means,  any  more  than  the  Stanhopes.  The 
rooms,  however,  were  rented  quite  frequently  to 
young  men  of  fashion.  It  was  very  natural  that 
pretty  girls  like  May  and  Alice  and  Sara  Tracey 
should  be  pleased  by  these  elegant  young  men  ; 
should  linger  on  the  stairways  talking  with  them ; 
should  accept  bouquets  and  Christmas  and  birth- 
day gifts  from  them ;  should,  in  short,  with  such 
opportunities,  fall  in  love  with  such  dazzling  heroes, 
and  expect  to  marry  them.  But,  Mary,  not  one 
of  these  heroes  offered  himself  in  marriage  to  them. 
Not  one  of  them  went  farther  than  those  flirta- 
4 


50          Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger. 

tions.  They  were  simply  passing  away  the  time. 
It  came  in  their  way  to  talk,  and  now  and  then 
offer  little  attentions  to  these  girls,  and  so  the  mat- 
ter ended  for  them.  But  not  so  did  it  end  for  the 
girls.  I  happen  to  know  that  Sara  Tracey  almost 
broke  her  heart  for  Morris  Ryder,  and  I  know 
that  May  and  Alice  were  more  deeply  interested 
in  those  young  Stanleys  than  was  well  for  their 
peace  of  mind.  Then  the  remarks  that  were  made 
were  of  course  not  agreeable.  There  is  always 
something  humiliating  in  the  position  of  a  woman, 
when  she  is  so  placed  or  so  places  herself  that  she 
can  be  flirted  with,  or  approached  as  an  acquaint- 
ance to  talk  and  laugh  with,  without  being  sought. 
And  any  mother  should  shield  her  daughters  from 
positions  like  these  if  she  can." 

"  Well,  I  believe  you  are  more  than  half  right, 
Kate,"  Mrs.  Alroyd  replied  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 
"  I  had  never  looked  upon  it  so  deeply  before,  I 
must  confess.  Not  having  girls  of  my  own,  you 
know,  I  'm  not  so  sensitive  as  you  are." 

"Well,  I  am  sensitive,  Mary,  on  this  point.  I 
would  like  as  well  as  any  mother  to  see  my  girls 
well  married,  but  I  don't  mean  they  shall  be  what 
is  called  4  thrown '  in  any  gentleman's  way,  nor 
stand  a  chance  of  being  *  condescended  to,'  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  We  are  poor,  and  not  fashion- 
able people  by  any  means ;  but  my  girls  are  ladies, 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         51 

and  I  mean  they  shall  hold  themselves,  and  be  held 
as  such." 

"  How  your  mind  does  hold  on  to  things,  Kate. 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  making  a  personal 
application,  or  taking  a  warning  from  anything  so 
far  back  as  the  affairs  of  the  Traceys." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  But  1  was  older  than  you, 
and  I  never  forgot  that  story." 

"  But,  Kate,  I  don't  believe  you  need  trouble 
yourself  about  this  Mr.  Hadley.  He  is  not  a 
young  man  like  Morris  Ryder  or  the  Stanleys.  He 
won't  be  likely  to  flirt  on  the  stairways  with  Kate 
or  Ellen  —  a  man  of  forty  !  "  And  Mrs.  Alroyd 
laughed. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  laughed,  too,  at  this  close  applica- 
tion of  the  story  of  the  Traceys;  and  so  the  conver- 
sation ended.  But  Mrs.  Stanhope's  thought  on  the 
subject  did  n't  end  with  her  words.  She  knew  that 
this  man  of  forty  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men 
she  had  chanced  to  see  lately,  and  whose  associa- 
tions, if  not  his  tastes,  were  with  the  fashionable 
world.  And  at  this  conclusion  she  said  to  herself : 
"  But,  perhaps,  I'm  making  an  old  fool  of  myself. 
I  do  hold  on  to  anything  so,  as  Mary  says." 

As  time  went  on  she  began  to  think  that  she  had 
been  over-anxious,  for  nothing  could  be  more  satis- 
factory than  the  course  of  affairs.  There  were 
none  of  those  stairway  meetings  and  talkings  she 


52          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

had  such  a  horror  of.  Only  a  courteous  and  rather 
stately  "  good-morning  "  or  "  good-evening,"  occa- 
sionally, in  a  swift  passage  to  and  from  the  door. 

"  There  never  was  such  a  proper  and  discreet 
bachelor,  mother,"  Frank,  who  must  always  have 
her  fun,  commented  to  her  mother.  "  He 's  as 
grave  and  proper  as  one  of  the  patriarchs." 

In  the  mean  time  this  "  grave  and  proper  "  bach- 
elor, who  had  learned  the  family  circumstances 
from  his  nephew,  was  wishing  he  could  be  of  ser- 
vice to  his  neighbors. 

"  That  little  girl  who  opened  the  door  for  us,  and 
laughed  in  our  faces,  that  first  night,  Rob,  might  do 
something  with  that  voice  of  hers  if  she  liked," 
Mr.  Hadley  said  one  evening,  when  Rob  Barker 
had  been  holding  forth  on  these  family  circum- 
stances, which  he  had  gathered  from  indiscreet 
Harry,  who  had  divulged  more  of  the  pinch  in  do- 
mestic economy  than  he  meant  to,  in  his  boyish 
talk  of  his  own  future  help. 

"You've  heard  her  sing?"  Rob  remarked,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  often  leave  my  door  open,  when 
I  'm  in  the  house,  to  hear  her.  She  really  has  a 
remarkable  voice." 

And  just  as  he  spoke  there  floated  to  them  the 
wild  sweet  notes  of  an  old  German  song  which 
Mr.  Hadley  had  listened  to  many  a  night  upon  the 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         53 

Rhine.  He  listened  now,  smoking  his  after-dinner 
pipe  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  When  it  was  ended, 
he  knocked  the  ashes  carefully  out  of  the  bowl  of 
his  meerschaum,  and  laying  it  down  upon  the  cor- 
ner of  the  shelf,  rose  up  and  proposed  to  Rob  that 
they  should  go  down  into  the  parlor  and  ask  the 
young  lady  if  she  would  be  kind  enough  to  let 
them  listen  to  her  singing  under  more  advantage- 
ous circumstances.  "  I  dare  say  she  sings  a  great 
many  of  those  old  German  ballads,  and  there 's 
nothing  I  should  like  to  hear  so  much." 

Rob  was,  of  course,  delighted.  They  found  the 
little  family  circle  complete.  Mrs.  Stanhope  ply- 
ing her  needle  by  the  drop-light,  Ellen,  near  her, 
going  over  some  school  compositions,  and  Harry 
putting  his  flute  together  preparatory  to  accom- 
pany Frank's  playing.  If  Mrs.  Stanhope  was  not 
pleased  at  this  interruption  she  did  not  show  her 
displeasure,  and  certainly  she  could  have  had  no 
reason  to  have  found  fault  with  Mr.  Hadley's  man- 
ner. He  was  quite  absorbed  in  the  evident  memo- 
ries called  up  by  the  songs  to  which  he  listened. 
And  after  the  singing  he  drifted  into  a  little  talk  of 
German  life,  especially  the  musical  life ;  and  as  he 
had  known  many  of  the  masters  of  the  present  day 
this  little  talk  was  very  entertaining. 

As  he  was  bidding  them  good-night,  with  his 
cordial  "  thanks  for  Miss  Stanhope's  goodness,"  he 


54          Mrs    Stanhope  $  Last  Lodger. 

smilingly,  though  quite  in  earnest,  remarked :  "  It 
is  n't  exactly  fair,  Mrs.  Stanhope,  that  your  daugh- 
ter should  let  only  a  few  enjoy  such  a  voice  as 
hers.  A  church  choir  would  find  her  invaluable." 

Frank  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  But,  Mr.  Hadley,  my  voice  is  n't  trained  at  all. 
It  knows  as  little  of  science  as  my  fingers.  I  play 
and  sing  a  great  deal  by  ear,  you  know  ;  though  I 
can  pick  out  my  notes  when  Harry  pushes  me  up 
with  that  remarkable  flute  of  his  ;  "  and  she  looked 
with  one  of  her  little  grimaces  at  Harry. 

"You  've  heard  so  much  good  music,  Miss  Stan- 
hope, that  your  voice  is  better  trained  than  you  im- 
agine ;  and  I  think  you  would  find  no  difficulty  in 
a  choir." 

This  was  a  great  word  for  Frank.  "  If  I  only 
could  get  a  situation  as  soprano  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  inward  exultation.  Whereupon  she  fell  to 
singing  church-music  with  a  will.  Morning,  noon, 
and  night  Mr.  Hadley  would  hear  that  sweet  voice 
ringing  high  and  clear  in  anthem  and  choral.  One 
evening  he  brought  home  with  him  a  church  or- 
ganist —  a  real  master  of  the  great  art.  They  sat 
talking  together  over  their  German  experiences, 
when  all  at  once  a  note  ascended  to  them  which 
stayed  the  words  upon  the  musician's  lips.  A  full, 
soft,  clarion-clear  note,  which  caught  up  and  car- 
ried on  a  flow  of  silver  song  so  pure  and  sweet, 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         55 

that  even  Mr.  Hadley  held  his  breath  in  a  little 
surprise  as  he  listened.  As  for  his  companion,  he 
waited  a  moment  as  the  voice  ceased,  and  then, 
turning  to  his  host,  asked  the  question  which  that 
gentleman  was  expecting  to  hear,  — 

"  Who  owns  that  nightingale,  pray  ?  " 

Mr.  Hadley  gave  him  the  desired  information  ; 
arid  then  they  talked  animatedly  for  the  next  fif- 
teen minutes  about  this  nightingale.  And  then 
Mr.  Hadley  went  down  to  Mrs.  Stanhope's  door, 
and  asked  if  he  might  be  allowed  to  bring  a  friend 
of  his  into  her  parlor  to  hear  Miss  Stanhope  sing, 
if  that  young  lady  would  be  so  kind.  And  Frank 
unwittingly  sang  to  one  of  the  greatest  critics  of 
the  day  —  sang,  as  she  said,  without  much  skill, 
but  with  all  her  heart  and  her  soul,  and  one  of  the 
richest,  sweetest  voices  in  the  world.  The  strange 
gentleman,  whose  name  they  did  n't  hear,  made  but 
few  comments,  but  his  thanks  were  sincere,  and  his 
face  a  mirror  of  delight  as  he  listened. 

"  Well,  you  were  not  disappointed,  were  you  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Hadley,  as  they  once  more  sat  alone  to- 
gether. 

"  Disappointed?  No  !  She  has  a  splendid  voice. 
The  very  soprano  we  want.  I  thank  you  for  your 
suggestion." 

A  few  days  following  this  Mr.  Hadley  was  com- 
ing down  from  his  rooms,  when  Mrs.  Stanhope's 


56          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

parlor  door  was  suddenly  flung  open,  and  Frank 
appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hadley,  I  want  to  thank  you  !"  she 
said  brightly. 

He  smiled.     "  For  what,  Miss  Stanhope?" 

"  For  my  situation  as  soprano  at Church. 

I  know  it  was  through  your  suggestion  that  it 
came  to  me." 

"  My  friend  hardly  needed  a  suggestion,  Miss 
Stanhope,  when  he  heard  your  voice,"  returned 
Mr.  Hadley. 

"  But  you  did  suggest  it  some  way,  I  know,  and 
I  am  very  happy  about  it." 

Mr.  Hadley  smiled  again.  "  That  is  very  pleas- 
ant for  me  to  hear,  Miss  Stanhope.  It 's  a  great 
thing  to  be  very  happy  ;  and  I  'm  very  glad  if  I 
have  been  instrumental  in  the  smallest  way  in 
bringing  about  such  a  desirable  result." 

Frank  laughed,  there  was  such  an  indescribable 
air  of  humor  in  this  little  speech,  and  in  the  kind 
eyes  that  regarded  her. 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  that  expression  very  ex- 
aggerated, Mr.  Hadley,  but  I  am  very  happy  about 
this  situation." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Stanhope,  if  I  seemed 
to  consider  your  expression  exaggerated.  Perhaps 
I  did  for  a  moment,  because,  as  I  say,  it 's  a  great 
thing  to  be  very  happy.  But  I  see  you  are  in  ear- 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         57 

nest,  and  I  see,  too,  that  it  is  a  very  natural  thing 
to  be  very  happy  over  a  situation  like  this." 

He  was  quite  grave  and  earnest  now,  and  so  en- 
tirely simple  that  Frank,  who  was  so  simple  herself 
and  at  home  with  everybody,  returned,  in  honest 
confidence,  — 

"  Of  course,  I  can't  help  but  be  very  Tiappy,  Mr. 
Hadley,  to  find  myself  all  at  once  of  so  much  help. 
Why,  I  am  to  to  have  six  hundred  dollars  a  year ; 
as  much  as  Ellen  gets  for  her  daily  school-teaching. 
And  I  have  only  to  sing  for  it  —  just  think  of  it !  " 
and  she  made  such  wide,  bright  eyes  at  this  that 
Mr.  Hadley  could  n't  help  smiling  again.  She 
laughed  again  at  his  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  that  seems  a  very  small  sum  to 
you,  Mr.  Hadley,  but  if  you  had  spent  your  useful- 
ness until  now  in  sweeping  and  dusting  and  bed- 
making  for  your  board  and  clothes,  and  broken 
your  heart  several  times  looking  in  at  the  shop 
windows,  I  dare  say  it  would  seem  a  small  fortune 
to  you." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would,  Miss  Stanhope,"  he  an- 
swered, heartily,  and  laughing  outright. 

"  Breaking  her  heart  at  the  shop  windows —  the 
child  !  I  dare  say  she  has,"  Mr.  Hadley  thought, 
with  a  feeling  made  up  of  sympathy  and  amuse- 
ment, as  he  went  out. 

Frank  had  said  truiy  of  herself  when  she  de- 


58          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

clared  that  she  was  very  happy  about  this  situation. 
She  was  very  happy  to  be  of  use,  to  help  herself, 
and  to  have  the  means  of  musical  culture.  She 
went  about  the  house  singing  her  scales,  or  flinging 
her  voice  out  in  some  great  rolling  anthem  day 
after  day ;  ^nd  Mr.  Hadley  used  to  hear  the  clear 
notes  breaking  into  his  morning  slumbers,  or  float- 
ing out  over  the  house-tops  like  a  lark's  song, 
as  spring  came  and  her  attic  window  was  opened  to 
the  early  sunshine. 

Quite  frequently  now,  too,  he  used  to  find  his 
way  to  Mrs.  Stanhope's  parlor  when  the  sweet 
voice  was  singing.  Frank  was  so  absorbed  in  her 
music  at  this  time,  and  indeed  the  interest  between 
them  was  so  entirely  musical,  that  Mrs.  Stanhope 
forgot  her  uneasiness  and  watchfulness  for  a  while. 

But  if  Mr.  Hadley  was  interested  in  the  music, 
he  was  by  no  means  unconscious  that  Miss  Stan- 
hope was  a  very  pretty  and  charming  girl.  She 
certainly  did  amuse  him  very  much,  and  this  fact 
would  have  filled  Mrs.  Stanhope  with  dismay  if  she  * 
had  suspected  it,  for  it  was  the  very  phrase  she  al- 
ways applied  to  her  old  friends,  the  Traceys. 
They  amused  people,  and  that  was  all.  But  Frank 
went  on  her  heedless,  happy  way,  giving  little 
thought  where  she  amused,  but  amusing  herself 
vastly.  She  had  made  the  most  of  her  opportuni- 
ties and  advantages,  and  risen  so  speedily  into  fa- 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         59 

vor  that  in  the  early  weeks  of  spring  she  was  en- 
gaged to  assist  at  a  very  recherche  private  concert. 

"  I  am  to  sing  '  Miriam's  Song  of  Triumph,' " 
she  said  to  Mr.  Hadley,  with  that  peculiar  wide, 
bright-eyed  pleasure  in  her  expression. 

"Don't  you  feel  a  little  nervous  about  it?5*  he 
asked  curiously. 

"No,  I  hadn't;  but  do  you  think  I  ought?" 
she  inquired  archly. 

"  Not  by  any  means  ! "  he  replied,  laughing. 

"  Why  should  I  feel  nervous  ? "  she  said,  more 
gravely ;  "  the  director  says  I  have  learned  my 
part  perfectly,  and  when  I  once  get  to  singing  I 
shall  forget  all  the  people  around  me  ;  I  always 
do." 

If  Mrs.  Stanhope  had  glanced  up  from  her  work 
just  then  she  would  have  seen  an  unmistakable 
look  of  thoughtful  admiration  on  Mr.  Hadley's  face. 
But  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from, her  darning,  and 
Frank  veered  off  from  her  gravity  into  her  amus- 
ing vein. 

"No,  I'm  not  nervous  about  the  singing,  but  I 
am  very  nervous  about  my  dress.  I  wanted  a  new 
pink  silk,  but  mother  said  it  was  too  showy  for 
me;  so  I  am  coming  out  in  an  old  blue  crepe, 
which  was  mother's,  and  I  shall  look  like  the  ghost 
in  Hamlet  with  my  white  lace  and  silver  orna- 
ments." 


60          Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger. 

She  laughed,  but  Mr.  Hadley  could  see  that  she 
was  a  good  deal  in  earnest ;  he  had  tact  enough,  how- 
ever, to  conceal  both  amusement  and  interest  as  he 
noticed  her  mother's  reproving  face,  and  caught  the 
admonitory,  "  Don't,  Frank ! "  But  his  artistic 
sense  sympathized  with  her.  Blue  did  not  suit 
her  white  but  not  fair  skin,  her  warm,  hazel  eyes, 
and  chestnut  hair.  Pink  would  have  made  her 
dazzling.  <;  Poor  little  girl !  "  he  thought ;  "  so 
the  domestic  economy  will  not  yield  a  pink  silk, 
even  with  the  added  six  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
Something  ought  to  be  done  for  her."  And  some- 
thing was  done. 

"  I  told  you  I  should  look  like  the  ghost,"  she 
said  to  her  mother,  as  she  came  down  stairs  into 
the  parlor  the  night  of  the  concert. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  was  not  quite  satisfied  herself. 

"  You  might  have  my  coral  ornaments,"  she  re- 
marked, doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  no !  that  opaque  red  against  this  blue 
would  be  dreadful !  " 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope said  "  Come  in  ; "  and  Mr.  Hadley  entered 
with  his  hands  full  of  the  most  beautiful  roses  — 
hot-house  roses,  of  a  soft  blush  pink  in  hue.  He 
had  timed  it  well. 

"  This  is  to  exorcise  the  ghost,  Miss  Stanhope. 
There  is  nothing  prettier,  you  know,  than  this 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         61 

deep  blush-pink  with  that  light  blue.  Is  n't  it 
what  you  call  Pompadour  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Hadley,  you  're  like  the  Fairy  God- 
mother !  They  are  just  the  thing,  and  I  thank  you 
a  thousand  times."  And,  turning  to  the  glass,  with 
quick,  deft  fingers,  she  very  soon  metamorphosed 
herself  into  a  glowing  "  phantom  of  delight."  "  Oh, 
how  it  does  change  all  that  pallid  moonshine,  does 
n't  it  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It 's  marvelous  what  ef- 
fect the  pink  has  on  the  blue  !  Is  n't  it  lovely  ? " 
and  she  turned  herself  and  her  roses  full  upon  him, 
with  the  innocent,  one-thoughted  question. 

"  Very  lovely  !  "  he  answered,  with  more  signifi- 
cance in  glance  and  tone  than  he  quite  meant  to 
show.  The  least  little  blush  crept  up  into  Frank's 
cheeks,  and,  matching  her  roses,  made  her  lovelier 
than  ever.  Of  course  Mrs.  Stanhope  was  anything 
but  pleased  at  this  little  by-play.  At  once  all  her 
old  fears  sprang  up,  and  beset  her  with  anxious 
thoughts,  while  that  old  story  of  the  Traceys  be- 
gan to  haunt  her  like  a  warning  ghost ;  and  that 
evening,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Hadley  about  a  dozen 
seats  from  her  talking  gayly  and  animatedly  to  a 
party  of  aristocratic-looking  girls,  her  mind  re- 
verted to  Morris  Ryder  and  the  Stanleys.  He  be- 
longed to  the  same  world  that  they  had  belonged 
to  ;  was  wealthy,  as  they  had  been ;  and  he  would, 
probably,  when  he  came  to  marry,  choose  a  wife 


62          Mrs.  Stanhopes  Last  Lodger. 

from  his  own  peculiar  circle,  as  they  had  chosen. 
If  he  was  pleased  with  Frank's  bright  face  and  nat- 
ural ways  ;  if  he  was  interested  in  her  music,  and 
enjoyed  her  singing,  it  was  much  in  the  same  man- 
ner that  he  was  interested  in  a  little  German  ar- 
tiste of  whom  he  spoke  as  "  as  an  admirable  young 
woman,  who  deserved  encouragement." 

Thus  Mrs.  Stanhope  argued ;  with  how  much 
reason  we  shall  see.  While  she  was  vexing  her 
soul  with  these  anxieties  and  suspicions  Frank  was 
pursuing  her  course,  untroubled  by  any  anxieties  or 
suspicions.  "  Miriam's  song  of  Triumph  "  was  ver- 
ily a  song  of  triumph  for  herself ;  and  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope seeing  how  happily  occupied  she  was  with  her 
musical  life  took  a  little  comfort  thereby,  and  made 
no  sign  of  her  inward  disquiet,  though  Mr.  Had- 
ley  was  not  an  infrequent  visitor  by  this  time.  The 
bond  of  their  mutual  love  of  music  was  very  favor- 
able to  acquaintance,  •  and  certainly  this  acquaint- 
ance did  progress  rapidly,  and  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  two  was  by  no  means  confined  to  one 
topic,  on  the  occasions  of  their  interviews. 

"  Frank,"  began  Mrs.  Stanhope  one  day,  in 
some  trepidation  lest  she  was  making  a  mistake  in 
speaking  at  all,  —  "  Frank,  do  you  think  it  quite 
wise  to  talk  so  much  with  Mr.  Hadley,  on  all  sorts 
of  topics,  in  that  intimate  way  ?  " 

Frank  opened  her  eyes  very  wide.     "  For  pity's 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         63 

sake,  mother,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  '  intimate 
way  ? ' " 

'"  Why,  my  dear,  I  only  mean  that  natural  way 
of  yours.  You  are  not  fast  or  free,  but  you  are  so 
at  home  with  everybody  that  some  persons  might 
misunderstand  it." 

"Mother,  Mr.  Hadley  has  too  much  sense  to 
misunderstand  me  ;  and  no  man,  unless  he  was  a 
fool,  could  think  I  meant  to  make  any  more  of  our 
acquaintance  than  is  apparent  on  the  surface." 

This  was  delivered  with  Frank's  most  vehement 
emphasis,  and  with  a  scarlet  flush  on  her  cheek. 
Mrs.  Stanhope  wisely  forbore  further  remark  on 
such  a  delicate  subject,  and  so  the  days  went  on, 
and  brought  another  day,  when  there  was  to  be  a 
great  musical  festival.  Mr.  Hadley,  going  up  to 
his  room  one  afternoon,  picked  up  a  long,  fluttering 
scrap  of  pink  silk,  that  floated  down  from  an  upper 
stairway.  He  smiled,  and  thought  to  himself,  — 

"  So,  the  pink  silk  is  achieved." 

Entering  his  parlor,  he  went  straight  to  a  Jap- 
anese cabinet,  where  he  kept  choice  gatherings 
from  his  European  tour,  and,  unlocking  it,  brought 
forth  from  a  little  inner  drawer  a  collection  of 
cameos.  From  these  he  selected  three,  of  a  deli- 
cate pearly  pink,  —  those  loveliest  and  rarest  of  the" 
cameo  variety,  —  and  laying  them  upon  the  strip 
of  silk  contemplated  the  effect  with  evident  satisfac- 


64          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

tion.  The  cameos  were  without  setting  of  any 
kind  at  this  time  —  just  the  beautiful  pink-white 
shell,  cut  by  a  most  skillful  hand.  By  the  time  the 
pink  silk  was  completed  these  three  cameos  were 
shining  resplendent  in  settings  so  cleverly  imitating 
the  antique  that  one  would  have  pronounced  them 
an  heir-loom.  Frank  and  her  mother,  sitting  to- 
gether in  the  parlor  after  tea  one  day,  were  not  sur- 
prised to  see  Mr.  Hadley  make  his  appearance.  He 
had  quite  got  into  the  way  of  dropping  in  after 
tea. 

"  See  how  well  I  can  match  the  pink  silk,"  he 
began,  smiling. 

Frank  looked  up  mystified ;  but  he  came  nearer, 
and  spreading  out  the  scrap  of  pink  silk  upon  her 
work-basket,  laid  upon  it  the  choice  pink  cameos 
in  their  antique  settings. 

Frank's  first  exclamation  was  of  delight  as  the 
effect  struck  her.  Then  that. second  sense  crept 
on,  and  she  glanced  involuntarily  at  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Stanhope's  face  was  overclouded  by  a  very 
grave  look. 

"  They  are  some  of  the  thousand  and  one  things 
I  collected  abroad,  Mrs.  Stanhope,"  Mr.  Hadley 
remarked  here,  easily ;  "  and  when  I  picked  up 
that  scrap  of  silk  the  other  day  I  thought  the  best 
use  they  could  be  put  to  would  be  to  be  worn  as  a 
match  for  that.  They  have  been  knocking  about 


Mrs.  Stanhope '*  Last  Lodger.         65 

so  much  I  see  they  are  a  little  scratched ;  but  if 
Miss  Stanhope  will  wear  them  she  will  be  more 
than  welcome  to  them,  for  I  am  too  heedless  a  fel- 
low to  like  the  care  of  such  things." 

He  had  been  very  diplomatic  in  hjs  careless 
ease  ;  but  Mrs.  Stanhope,  who  had  lived  her  day, 
knew  what  a  costly  gift  this  was.  She  thought 
her  answer  would  convey  all  she  wished  him  to  un- 
derstand. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Hadley,"  she  said; 
"  but,  under  the  circumstances,  I  had  rather  Frank 
wouldn't  receive  so  expensive  a  gift." 

There  was  a  grain  of  impulse  in  Robert  Had- 
ley's  composition,  which  years  and  experience  and 
a  strong  will  had  not  quite  overcome.  It  now  and 
then  betrayed  him  into  swift  speech.  So  now,  in 
his  surprise,  or  perhaps  irritation,  he  exclaimed 
quickly  :  — 

u  What  circumstances  ?  " 

Brought  to  bay  so  directly,  she  thought  so 
coolly,  Mrs.  Stanhope  was  a  little  indignant,  and 
she  answered,  therefore,  rather  sharply  and  to  the 
point :  — 

''  You  are  comparatively  a  stranger  to  us,  Mr- 
Hadley,  and,  at  the  most,  our  relation  is  but  a 
business  one,  —  at  least  it  began  so ;  and  though 
you  have  been  very  kind  and  friendly  to  us,  yet  an 
acquaintance  like  this  is  different,  and  one  feels 
5 


66         Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

differently  about  it,  than  one  commenced  through 
intimate  friends." 

"  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  I  thought  a  friend  was  a 
friend  under  whatever  circumstances  you  found 
him.  But  as  you  don't  hold  the  same  opinion, 
Mrs.  Stanhope,  I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  a 
great  many  liberties  I  ?ve  taken  in  the  way  of  com- 
ing into  your  parlor  uninvited,  for,  according  to 
your  view,  I  'm  only  a  business  acquaintance.  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  you  're  too  bad !  " 

Mr.  Hadley  had  begun  this  speech  in  rather  a 
nettled  tone  and  manner,  but  at  the  last  he  wound 
up  suddenly  with  a  quick,  good-natured  laugh  that 
disarmed  his  listener  more  than  anything  else. 
She  laughed  in  return,  and  retorted :  — 

"I  think  you  are  too  bad,  Mr.  Hadley,  to  will- 
fully refuse  to  understand  me." 

"  But,  you  see,  I  'm  not  up  to  it,  Mrs.  Stanhope. 
I've  lived  abroad  so  long  these  American  delica- 
cies and  hair-line  distinctions  are  beyond  me." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  did  n't  believe  a  word  of  this  ; 
but  it  was  useless  to  get  into  further  discussion,  so 
made  no  reply. 

"  And  you  won't  consider  me  a  friend  and  let 
that  little  girl  take  these  trinkets  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
presently,  under  his  new  veil  of  humor. 

"  I  had  rather  she  did  not,  Mr.  Hadley." 

Mr.  Hadley   bent   forward   with  a  vexed  look. 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         67 

and  gathering  the  cameos  together  crushed  them 
recklessly  into  his  pocket. 

"  You  have  made  me  feel  like  a  great  blunder- 
ing boy,  Mrs.  Stanhope,"  he  said,  out  of  the  quick, 
impulsive  mood  she  had  invoked. 

His  action  was  certainly  boyish  in  a  certain 
sense,  but  just  as  certainly  not  blundering  or  awk- 
ward. As  he  said  this,  and  rose  from  his  chair, 
there  was  such  a  grace  and  charm  about  him  that 
Mrs.  Stanhope  felt  that  he  was  more  than  a  match 
for  her  caution  and  watchfulness.  She  felt  it  still 
more  as  the  days  went  by,  and  he  made  his  "  blun- 
der," as  he  called  it,  a  ground  for  still  closer  ac- 
quaintance ;  for  everybody  knows  that  a  laugh  or 
a  joke  will  break  down  more  barriers  and  build  up 
more  edifices  of  friendliness  than  weeks  of  serious 
conversation.  He  was  constantly  alluding,"  when 
he  met  them,  to  the  extent  and  quality  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, as  understood  by  Mrs.  Stanhope ;  and 
this  in  so  gay  and  witty  a  manner  that  one  could 
scarcely  find  fault  with  it.  Frank  grew  easier 
than  ever  with  him  on  this  ground,  for  it  suited  her 
bright,  audacious  spirit.  But  Mrs.  Stanhope  was 
sorely  perplexed.  How  would  all  this  end?  she 
perpetually  asked  herself. 

In  vain  she  tried  to  sound  the  extent  of  Frank's 
interest  in  this  fascinating  but  most  troublesome 
lodger.  That  young  lady  was  either  untouched, 


68         Mrs.  Stanhope V  Last  Lodger. 

or  carrying  a  high  hand  with  her  pride.  She  was 
quite  capable  of  breaking  her  heart  with  laughing 
lips.  That  kind  of  nature  always  goes  with  her 
quality  of  high  spirits. 

In  the  mean  time  let  it  not  be  supposed  that 
Miss  Stanhope  lacked  attention  or  appreciation  in 
other  quarters.  There  was  a  young  book-keeper 
in  the  firm  of  Alroyd  and  Dace  whom  her  uncle 
and  her  mother  especially  favored.  "  He 's  a  very 
promising  fellow.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  we 
made  him  one  of  us  next  year,"  commented  Uncle 
Tom,  with  significance.  Then  there  were  sundry 
others  —  young  men  in  responsible  positions,  or 
just  entering  business  for  themselves,  who  were 
very  evident  admirers  of  this  sparkling,  bright- 
faced  Frank. 

Mrs.  Stanhope,  coming  in  one  evening  from  a 
lecture,  found  one  of  these  admirers  wearing  a 
very  rueful  face,  and  her  daughter  looking  a  good 
deal  confused  and  annoyed.  Like  a  wise  woman 
she  asked  no  questions ;  but  she  was  none  the  less 
certain  that  she  had  just  lost  a  very  worthy  son-in- 
law  ;  and  with  some  irrelevance,  but  a  great  deal 
of  impatience,  she  said  to  herself :  "  And  it 's  all 
the  fault  of  that  Mr.  Hadley.  In  love  with  him 
or  not,  Frank  is  getting  spoiled  for  anybody  else 
in  seeing  so  much  of  him." 

In  this  sentence  Mrs.  Stanhope  fairly  acknowl- 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         69 

edged  the  superiority,  or  at  least  the  fascination  of 
Mr.  Hadley.  But  this  acknowledgment  was  sim- 
ply of  externals  and  the  accidents  of  position.  Of 
the  internal  man  she  had  no  more  or  less  respect 
than  for  any  other  man  of  the  world.  He  was 
shrewd  as  they  were ;  he  was  sensible  as  they 
were  ;  he  was  generous  as  they  were  ;  he  was  self- 
ish and  fond  of  his  ease  as  they  were.  This  was 
the  way  she  classed  him — by  generalities.  And 
while  she  thus  perplexed  herself  Frank  and  Mr. 
Hadley  got  on  very  pleasantly  together.  She  sang 
for  him,  laughed  and  talked  with  him,  and  even 
got  so  far  as  to  make  her  funny  little  grimaces  at 
him  upon  occasions.  But  there  was  coming  a 
change  to  all  this.  A  series  of  small  incidents, 
not  very  weighty  in  themselves  one  would  think, 
brought  this  change  about. 

It  Was  the  first  day  of  June,  and  Frank  was  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet  down  stairs 
in  her  mother's  parlor.  She  wore  a  white  tarla- 
tan, for  she  was  to  sing  at  a  morning  concert.  A 
white  tarlatan,  with  some  puffings  of  illusion  crust- 
ing it  like  foam.  As  she  stood  before  the  glass, 
fastening  a  knot  of  heath  in  her  hair,  she  saw  Mr. 
Hadley  ascending  the  stairs. 

"  You  are  like  a  lily  in  all  that  white  stuff,"  he 
said,  coming  forward  into  the  room. 

"  I  'd  rather  be  a  rose —  it  suits  me  better ;  but 


70          Mrs.  Stanhope* *  Last  Lodger. 

Harry  forgot  to  go  for  my  roses,  so  I  pulled  this 
heath  out  of  a  bouquet  I  had,"  she  answered,  ab- 
sently, as  she  tried  to  get  the  heath  into  order. 

"  What  time  are  you  to  be  at  the  hall  ? "  he 
asked,  leaning  against  the  piano  in  an  idle,  lei- 
surely manner,  as  if  time  and  its  hurries  were 
nothing  to  him. 

"  In  about  half  an  hour,  if  I  ever  get  this  rub- 
bishy heath  in." 

And  as  she  ejaculated  this,  in  her  little  impa- 
tient way,  she  tore  the  rebellious  spray  out  of  its 
fastening  and  brought  down  with  it  two  or  three 
fluffy  curls  she  had  taken  great  pains  with.  Her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  quick  as  her  quick  thought  she 
flung  the  offending  heath-spray  impetuously  upon 
the  floor  with  a  childish  "  There  !  " 

Mrs.  Stanhope  said  reprovingly,  "Why,  Frank  ! " 
But  Mr.  Hadley  laughed,  giving  his  head  a  certain 
backward  movement  that  denoted  with  him  great 
amusement,  and  then  leisurely  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

The  half  hour  had  not  quite  elapsed  when  he 
came  back  to  find  Frank  tying  on  her  white  cloak, 
and  still  looking  rather  disturbed. 

"  I  've  got  your  roses,"  he  said  smilingly,  un- 
covering a  broad,  deep  basket  where  such  treasures 
of  rose-wealth  lay,  in  hues  of  pink  and  white  and 
blush,  as  to  call  out  Frank's  wildest  admiration 
and  most  impulsive  expressions. 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         71 

"They  are  perfectly  exquisite,  perfectly;  and 
you  are  just  as  kind  as  you  can  be  to  get  them  for 
me  at  this  eleventh  hour,  Mr.  Hadley." 

Then  she  ran  to  the  glass  again,  and  in  a  hap- 
py excitement,  which  was  an  inspiration,  showered 
herself  with  these  June-darlings. 

Turning  to  him  again  when  all  was  completed, 
she  put  out  her  hand,  and  said  in  yet  more  earnest 
gratitude,  — 

"  They  are  splendid,  Mr.  Hadley ; "  and  then 
with  a  little  willful,  half-laughing  glance  at  her 
mother,  which  he  did  not  lose,  "  and  you  are  splen- 
did to  bring  them  to  me,  and  I  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart." 

He  joined  her  laugh,  but  his  eyes  lighted  with 
some  inward  fire  as  he  looked  upon  her ;  and  as 
he  took  the  little  gloveless  hand  she  had  put  out 
to  him  in  her  impulse  of  thanks,  he  repeated  in 
a  soft  tone  as  he  regarded  her  rose-crowned  love- 
liness, — 

"  '  Queen  rose  of  the  rose-bud  garden  of  girls.'  " 

In  this  moment  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Stanhope  ;  but  the  next  instant 
her  voice  recalled  him,  and  with  a  sudden  color  in 
his  cheeks  he  relinquished  the  little  hand  and  re- 
sumed his  ordinary  manner.  But  in  a  few  minutes 
more  the  carriage  was  announced,  and  quite  as  a 


72          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

matter  of  course  he  attended  her  to  it ;  but  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  who  was  standing  at  the  window,  saw 
him  bend  forward  and  say  something  in  a  low 
voice  as  he  closed  the  carriage-door,  which  some- 
thing sent  the  color  of  all  her  roses  into  Frank's 
cheeks.  In  the  midst  of  Mrs.  Stanhope's  perplex- 
ity a  new  thought  pierced  like  a  ray  of  light. 

"  What  if,  after  all  "  —  she  said  aloud,  turning 
from  the  window.  And  then  she  fell  into  silent 
musing  as  she  watched  Mr.  Hadley  down  the 
street. 

But  the  next  two  incidents  put  out  this  new 
light,  and  brought  on  a  violent  change  in  the  pro- 
gramme. 

Rob  Barker  was  leaning  over  the  piano,  listen- 
ing and  looking  devoutly  as  Frank  sang  for  him. 
She  sang  a  soft  ballad  she  had  sung  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  scent  of  the  roses  —  Mr.  Hadley's  roses 
—  hung  round  her  still.  Mr.  Hadley  himself,  at 
a  little  distance,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  ob- 
served the  two  —  the  singer  and  her  devout  list* 
ener,  with  keen  attention ;  and  over  her  busy 
knitting-needles  Mrs.  Stanhope  observed  Mr.  Had- 
ley. 

Young  Robert  had  come  to  a  climax  of  his  ad- 
miration that  morning.  All  that  white  tarlatan 
and  illusion  and  roses  and  the  sweet  voice  singing 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         73 

out  of  it,  had  been  too  much  for  him.  As  the 
sweet  voice  ceased  now,  he  began  pouring  out  his 
thanks  in  rather  glowing  words.  In  the  midst  of 
these  words  Mr.  Hadley's  voice  struck  in  like  a 
chill :  — 

"  Rob,  who  was  that  I  saw  you  with  this  morn- 
ing?" 

Rob  looked  exceedingly  annoyed  as  he  answered, 
"  Miss  Leyton,  sir." 

Mr.  Hadley  seemed  to  be  very  much  interested 
all  at  once. 

"  What,  little  Katy  Leyton,"  he  went  on,  "  grown 
up  into  that  pretty  girl  ?  Yes,  I  remember  —  she 's 
near  your  age  —  eighteen  or  thereabouts.  A  pret- 
ty girl  —  a  very  pretty  girl !  But  her  mother  was 
a  great  beauty  and  a  famous  belle ;  one  of  a  famous 
family,  of  which  old  Tom  St.  Clair  was  the  chief 
and  head." 

Frank  had  turned  from  the  piano  by  this  time. 
She  had  not  her  mother's  morbid  sense  ;  and  it 
must  be  allowed  that  Mrs.  Stanhope's  over-sensi- 
tiveness amounted  to  morbidness  sometimes.  And 
not  having  this  sense,  she  did  not  perceive  the  mo- 
tive that  her  mother  did  in  Mr.  Hadley's  words. 
Indeed  she  perceived  no  motive  at  all. 

But  to  Mrs.  Stanhope  this  motive  was  patent. 
It  was  keen  displeasure  at  his  nephew's  evident 
subjugation  to  Miss  Stanhope's  charms.  A  dis- 


74          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

pleasure  which  found  vent  and  carried  warning  and 
reproof  in  the  contrast  of  suitability  in  Katy  Ley- 
ton's  youth  and  high  family.  Mrs.  Stanhope  rode 
her  high  horse  at  this  crisis.  "  It 's  the  old  story 
of  the  Traceys  over  again,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Frank  is  a  pretty,  interesting  girl  like  that  Miss 
Schaffner,  the  German  artiste,  but  not  to  be  thought 
of  as  an  alliance  with  Mr.  Hadley's  nephew  or  Mr. 
Hadley  himself."  And  back  her  mind  went,  gath- 
ering all  the  old  items  to  add  to  this  evidence. 
Many  a  remark  or  an  action  she  might  otherwise 
have  forgotten  now  came  up  and  assumed  gigantic 
importance.  She  was  the  more  disturbed  by  all 
this  when  she  recalled  the  roses  that  had  lately 
bloomed  in  Frank's  cheeks  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion when  Mr.  Hadley  was  present. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  cried  mentally,  as  she 
reviewed  her  trouble  that  night.  The  next  day, 
when  Harry  came  home  with  the  great  news  that 
he  had  got  his  situation  in  the  firm  of  Slido  and 
Sayles,  with  a  salary  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  she  straightway  saw  what  she  would  do.  She 
would  give  up  her  lodgers.  With  the  united  sala- 
ries of  the  three  and  the  income  of  the  five  thou- 
sand dollars  they  could  do  nicely. 

"  Jubilate !  "  shouted  Harry,  when  his  mother 
proposed  her  plan.  He  felt  very  happy  and  very 
grand  that  he  had  helped  to  this.  Even  Ellen's 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         75 

calm,  quiet  eyes  took  a  new  light.  "  And  we  shall 
have  the  old  parlors  again,  and  the  south  and  west 
rooms  !  "  she  remarked  brightly. 

"  And  not  be  mewed  up  in  back  chambers  and 
attics  any  more !  "  broke  in  Harry. 

Frank  was  sitting  at  the  piano  when  the  conver- 
sation opened,  touching  the  chords  of  an  old  chant. 
She  did  not  whirl  about  in  her  usual  quick  fashion 
when  she  was  interested  or  startled.  She  played 
through  several  bars,  and  then  turned  slowly,  with 
the  words,  — 

"  Have  you  told  the  lodgers  ?  " 

"All  but  Mr.  Hadley,"  her  mother  answered, 
looking  up  involuntarily  to  see  the  effect  of  her 
words. 

But  Frank's  face  betrayed  nothing  if  she  felt 
anything.  She  said  little,  it  was  true  ;  but  Harry's 
voice  was  so  industrious  there  was  small  chance  for 
any  other.  And  while  he  talked  she  turned  to  the 
piano,  and  commenced  playing  again.  And  as  she 
played  Mr.  Hadley  came  in,  and  Mrs.  Stanhope 
disclosed  her  new  arrangement  to  him  at  once. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  grave  and  thoughtful; 
then  he  spoke  pleasantly  and  kindly,  congratulat- 
ing them  on  that  to  which  they  evidently  looked 
forward  as  a  desirable  change.  'And  then  he 
laughed,  and  took  rather  a  jocose  tone  upon  his 
own  special  interest  in  the  matter,  declaring  that 


76          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  was  turning  him  adrift  in  the  most 
hard-hearted  manner.  And  through  it  all  the  mu- 
sic of  that  old  chant  went  wailing.  Frank  never 
turned  from  where  she  sat  but  for  a  nod  of  greet- 
ing and  good-night,  and  his  stay  was  very  brief  that 
evening. 

But  as  he  sat  in  his  room  quite  late  smoking  he 
heard  the  weird  and  solemn  music  of  chant  and 
choral  played  softly  and  fitfully.  Long  after  it 
ceased,  and  his  pipe  was  out,  he  still  sat  by  the 
open  window  in  the  June  twilight  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  on  the  next 
day  that  Frank  stood  in  Mr.  Hadley's  room  dust- 
ing the  elaborate  carving  of  the  old-fashioned  mir- 
ror-frame. Working  and  singing  away,  she  heard 
no  sound,  but  was  suddenly  startled  by  Mr.  Had- 
ley's reflection  in  the  mirror,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold.  He  was  in  her  thoughts,  but  she  sup- 
posed him  out  of  the  house.  The  color  rushed 
into  her  cheeks,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head 
to  pull  off  the  white  handkerchief  with  which  she 
had  covered  her  hair  from  the  dust. 

"  Wait  a  minute  !  "  he  remonstrated.  "  You 
look  like  a  quaint  French  peasant-girl  that  way." 

She  made  a  little  grimace,  spite  of  her  embar- 
rassment, and  said  saucily  :  — 

"  I  had  rather  look  like  Miss  Stanhope,  any  day. 
I  've  seen  those  great  Normandy  caps  stuck  on  the 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         77 

French  nurses'  heads  at  Newport,  and  I  think  they 
are  anything  but  pretty."  Whereupon  she  re- 
moved the  handkerchief,  and  smoothed  her  ruffled 
hair  with  the  prettiest  of  slim  little  hands. 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  smiling,  "  I  think  I  like 
Miss  Stanhope  better."  Then  his  eyes  wandered 
to  the  mirror  and  back  again  to  rest  upon  the  slim 
little  hands.  "  So,"  he  said,  "  these  are  the  hands 
that  have  kept  my  shabby  old  mirror  so  bright  and 
shining?  I  fancy  a  good  deal  about  here  is  the 
brighter  for  your  presence.  But  what  am  I  to  do 
if  I  am  to  lose  it  ?  " 

As  he  proposed  this  sudden  question  he  bent 
upon  her  a  look  so  full  of  meaning  that  the  color 
sprang  redly  to  her  cheek  again.  There  was  a 
pause,  in  which  one  heart  was  certainly  beating 
very  rapidly  ;  then  he  moved  nearer  to  her,  and  in 
another,  a  graver,  tone  asked,  — 

"  Frank,  what  is  it  your  mother  has  against 
me?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  called  her 
Frank.  This,  and  the  rest  of  his  sentence,  sur- 
prised her  out  of  her  embarrassment. 

"  Against  you  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  can 
you  be  thinking  of?  I  am  sure. she  has  nothing 
against  you." 

"  Yes,  she  has.  I  have  noticed  it  on  various  oc- 
casions. On  our  first  interview,  I  remember,  she 


78          Mrs.  Stanhope  »  Last  Lodger. 

did  not  look  upon  me  with  favorable  eyes  by  any 
means." 

A  dimple  in  Frank's  left  cheek  began  to  discover 
itself,  and  the  next  minute  made  a  little  well  of 
frolic,  as  she  burst  into  a  laugh.  She  remembered 
that  first  interview  too. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hadley,  joining  in  her 
laugh,  "  so  I  recollect,  also,  you  laughed  in  my  face 
at  that  first  interview.  Now,  I  insist  on  knowing 
what  it  all  means." 

"  It  does  n't  mean  that  my  mother  has  anything 
against  you  individually,  Mr.  Hadley,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh,  it 's  collectively  then  ;  that 's  more  encour- 
aging." 

Frank  did  not  mean  to  tell  the  story  of  her 
mother's  peculiar  prejudice,  but  a  little  bantering, 
a  few  adroit  questions,  and  the  whole  matter  was 
very  clear  to  Mr.  Hadley's  mental  vision ;  clearer 
perhaps  than  to  Frank  herself. 

"  Frank,"  he  began,  after  this,  "  have  you  any- 
thing against  me,  collectively  or  individually  ?  " 

She  laughed,  then  answered,  half-shyly,  —  "  No 
—  nothing." 

"  You  do  not  object  to  my  years,  then  ?  You 
do  not  disapprove  of  me  for  an  inmate  of  your 
house  because  I  am  too  young  a  man  ?  Frank,  how 
is  it ;  am  I  too  old  a  man  for  you  to  become  an  in- 
mate of  my  house  ?  There  's  an  old  place  down  by 


Mrs.  Stanhope  s  Last  Lodger.         79 

Burton  Beach  that  bears  my  name.  I  went  and 
put  it  in  order  the  other  day,  and  my  housekeeper 
asked  me  when  I  was  going  to  bring  my  wife  there. 
I  could  n't  tell  her  then,  and  I  cannot  tell  her  now, 
or  ever,  Frank,  unless  you  will  be  my  wife,  for  I 
will  have  no  other." 

His  voice  had  deepened  into  the  most  tender 
gravity  as  he  uttered  these  last  words.  There  was 
anxiety  there  too,  for  beyond  a  blush  this  proud 
little  Frank,  true  daughter  of  her  mother,  had 
given  no  sign  of  her  heart.  But  now  all  this  was 
changed ;  and  as  she  turned  and  let  her  eyes  meet 
his,  and  as  she  put  those  slim  little  hands  into  his 
hands,  he  knew  that  he  had  no  further  cause  for 
anxiety,  for  he  knew  that  even  as  he  loved  her  she 
had  loved  him.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  then  and 
kissed  her;  but  a  little  later,  bending  her  head 
back,  he  looked  into  those  eloquent  eyes,  and  said 
half  reprovingly,  half  smilingly,  — 

**  You  proud  little  thing,  to  never  give  me  any 
sign  before." 

And  later  yet,  when  he  had  his  talk  with  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  he  said  to  that  lady :  — 

"I  think  you  must  all  have  been  blind,  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  not  to  have  seen  from  tlie  first  that  my 
interest  was  of  the  deepest  nature.  But  you  were 
bound,  you  know,  by  your  prejudice,"  he  added, 
mischievously,  "  to  believe  that  I  was  the  wolf  in 
the  sheep's  clothing." 


80          Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  replied  to  this  by  speaking  more 
at  length  on  the  whys  and  the  wherefores  of  her 
"  prejudice  "  than  she  had  ever  spoken  before,  ex- 
cept to  her  sister  Alroyd. 

He  respected  and  understood  her  motives  better 
than  she  had  hoped. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  answered  seriously ;  "  and  I 
think  you  are  nearer  right  than  wrong  after  all, 
Mrs.  Stanhope."  Then  he  returned  to  his  mis- 
chievous gayety  again.  "  But  you  are  right  only 
collectively,  Mrs.  Stanhope.  Individually  you  have 
proved  yourself  wrong  —  and  a  little  morbid",  too, 
or  you  would  have  seen  what  must  have  been  so 
patent.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  I  believe  I  was  even 
a  little  jealous  of  that  boy  Robert  at  one  time." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  smiled  as  she  recalled  her  differ- 
ent interpretation  of  his  feeling  about  "  that  boy 
Robert."  And,  smiling,  she  said  to  herself :  "  I  be- 
lieve we  were  all  blind  in  this  matter." 

All  blind,  perhaps,  but  one.  Cool  and  quiet  and 
apparently  unobserving,  Ellen  only  evinced  no  sur- 
prise when  it  was  told  her  that  Mr.  Hadley  was  to 
be  her  brother-in-law. 

"  I  knew  it  was  coming  to  that,"  she  said  smil- 
ingly ;  "  I  saw  it  from  the  first." 

Mr.  Alroyd,  who  always  had  to  have  his  say,  de- 
clared coolly  that  he  had  seen  it  from  the  first,  too  ; 
but  Frank,  making  one  of  her  drollest  grimaces, 


Mrs.  Stanhope's  Last  Lodger.         81 

asked  him  why,  then,  he  had  been  so  anxious  for 
her  to  smile  upon  that  remarkable  young  book- 
keeper of  his.  And  Uncle  Alroyd,  who  never 
liked  to  be  put  in  the  wrong  in  any  way,  could 
only  shrug  his  shoulders  at  this  and  declare  that 
Frank  was  entirely  too  hasty  in  her  conclusions. 
6 


A  FOOLISH  GIRL. 


[  ON'T  stare  so,  Annie ;  it  fs  very  rude  of 
you." 

"  But  she  does  n't  take  the  least  no- 
tice of  me." 

"  Well,  it  's  rude  to  stare  at  any  one  so,  all  the 
same.  Do  come  on  faster,  Annie.  I  'm  ashamed 
of  you." 

"  Oh,  but  she  interests  me  so  much,  Alice. 
While  everybody  is  out  of  doors  walking  and  talk- 
ing, and  listening  to  the  band,  she  sits  there  alone 
and  neither  seems  to  listen  nor  to  look  at  anything. 
Alice,"  in  a  softer  voice,  "  do  you  know  I  think  it 
is  one  of  those  French  girls  who  has  got  bad  news 
of  her  —  her  lover,  perhaps,  in  the  last  mail.  There 
are  ever  so  many  French  families  here  from  Paris." 

Alice  laughs ;  for  Alice  is  matter-of-fact  and  un- 
imaginative, and  consequently  does  not  invest  every 
pretty,  melancholy-looking  face  with  a  tragedy  be- 
cause there  is  a  war  going  on  at  this  time. 

"  Of  course  you  'd  get  up  a  romance,  Annie.  I 
dare  say  it  's  only  somebody  who  has  a  fit  of  indi- 


A  Foolish   Girl.  83 

gestion.     There,  Uncle  John  is   beckoning  to  us  ; 
we  must  go  on  now.     Come  !  " 

A  young  man  sauntering  up  the  street,  just  ar- 
rived at  this  little  Breton  watering-place,  which  at 
this  season  is  so  full  and  so  fashionable,  overhears 
the  conversation,  and  turns  involuntarily  to  see  the 
cause  of  it.  If  the  fanciful  little  English  girl  could 
have  seen  his  start  of  surprised  recognition  as  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  heroine  of  her  romance,  her 
"  French  girl  "  in  the  hotel  balcony,  she  would  at 
once  have  added  another  chapter  to  her  romance. 
But  if  the  girl,  pale  and  dark-eyed,  who  sits  there 
wrapped  in  a  gray  shawl,  looks  like  a  French- 
woman, the  young  man  who  is  now  rapidly  ap- 
proaching her  certainly  does  not  look  like  a  French- 
man, with  his  square  shoulders,  his  stoutish  build, 
and  his  close-cut  reddish  hair,  and  tawny,  flowing 
beard.  The  prosaic  Alice  would  no  doubt  have 
relished  the  utter  demolition  of  her  sister's  roman- 
tic fancies  if  she  had  heard  the  unmistakable  plain 
English  of  the  hearty  "  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Ada  ?  "  a  moment  later,  and  the  response  in  the 
same  accents  from  the  "  French  girl."  And  when, 
in  another  moment,  the  gentleman  repeats  the  bit 
of  conversation  he  has  just  overheard,  the  laugh 
that  falls  readily  from  the  young  lady's  lips  dissi- 
pates entirely  the  supposition  of  a  tragical  love 
story  in  her  case. 


84  A  Foolish  Girl. 

"  The  idea  of  my  looking  so  sentimental  as  all 
that  comes  to,  George  ! "  she  says,  after  her  laugh. 

"  But  you  did  look  what  our  French  friends 
would  call  uncommonly  triste,  when  I  first  caught 
sight  of  you,  Miss  Ada." 

"  Did  I  ?  How  interesting.  If  triste  meant  ill- 
tempered,  it  would  suit  the  case  very  well.  But 
come,  tell  me  about  yourself,  George.  You  're  the 
last  person  I  expected  to  see  here.  When  I  left 
New  York  you  were  in  China,  or  some  other  out- 
landish place." 

"  And  I  have  n't  been  home  since.  I  sailed 
from  there  to  England,  and  as  I  was  a  little  worn 
out,  I  was  ordered  here." 

Miss  Payne  regarded  her  companion  for  a  mo- 
ment with  a  little  more  attention  than  she  had  yet 
bestowed  upon  him.  "  You  've  been  ill  ? "  she 
asked. 

"Not  exactly,  but  not  quite  well.  I  had  too 
much  care  in  Hong  Kong.  The  book-keeper  died 
there,  and  could  n't  be  replaced  for  some  months." 

"  Business,  always  business,  with  us  Americans. 
It  kills  us."  Then,  with  a  short,  unmirthful  laugh, 
"  It  has  nearly  killed  me  already." 

"  You  ?  what  do  you  know  of  it,  Miss  Ada  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  've  been  at  the  hardest  kind  of  busi- 
ness, George.  Your  tea  business  in  China  is  noth- 
ing to  governessing." 


A  Foolish   G-irl.  85 

"  What  sent  you  into  that  ?  "  asks  Mr.  King  in  a 
surprised  tone. 

"What  sends  most  people  to  work — lack  of 
money,  Master  George." 

"  But  you  came  —  I  thought "  —  George  floun- 
ders in  confusion.  He  has  not  that  ready  wit  which 
enables  him  to  steer  clear  of  dangerous  facts. 

"  Yes,  I  came  abroad  with  the  Carneys  by  their 
invitation,  but  I  came  as  the  children's  governess. 
I  dare  say  any  other  girl  under  the  sun  would  find 
nothing  but  enjoyment  in  these  circumstances,  but 
I  am  not  any  other  girl ;  I  'm  Adelaide  Payne,  with 
the  quickest  temper,  and  the  meanest  pride,  and 
the  most  cantankerous  spirit  that  you  '11  find  any- 
where." 

George  King  laughed.  All  this  to  him  was  only 
Miss  Ada's  exaggerated  nonsense.  With  him  her 
"  quick  temper "  was  proper  spirit,  the  "  meanest' 
pride  "  was  independence,  and  the  "  cantankerous 
spirit "  sore  sensitiveness.  But  then  you  must  take 
into  consideration  that  George  was  in  love  with 
this  young  woman.  In  love  with  her,  though  she 
had  rejected  him  nearly  two  years  ago.  He  had 
now  apparently  resigned  himself  to  the  post  of 
friendship.  This  was  n't  so  difficult  a  thing  to  do 
with  Adelaide  Payne  as  it  might  have  been  with 
another  woman,  for  she  was  curiously  free  from 
that  kind  of  vanity  or  sentimentalism  which  makes 


86  A  Foolish  Girl. 

some  women,  most  women,  selfish  egotists  in  such 
matters.  Six  weeks  after  George  had  received  his 
conge  from  her  she  met  him  accidentally,  and, 
greeting  him  without  a  shade  of  embarrassment,  be- 
gan talking  to  him  about  some  of  her  plans ;  for 
Adelaide  had  always  some  new  plan  on  foot.  Ever 
since  then,  whenever  they  had  chanced  to  be  to- 
gether, Adelaide  always  treated  him  in  the  same 
easy  way  of  Ultimate  friendship  ;  and  George  liked 
it.  But  sitting  there  with  him  upon  the  balcony  of 
the  Breton  hotel,  after  a  year's  absence,  she  does 
n't  talk  to  him  any  more  of  her  plans,  and  George 
wonders  why  not,  and  something  flashes  into  his 
mind  to  account  for  this  silence,  which  turns  him 
giddy.  What  if  —  King  is  the  most  delicate  fellow 
in  the  world  with  his  friends  ;  he  never  asks  them 
questions  ;  but  now,  for  the  first  tune  in  his  life, 
he  begins  to  pump. 

"  And  if  you  hate  governessing,  Miss  Ada,  and 
are  not  happy  here  with  the  Carneys,  have  n't  you 
some  new  plan  ?  " 

"  Some  new  plan ! "  And  Adelaide  Payne 
laughs  a  little  bitterly.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  talk 
of  some  new  plan  ;  for  I  've  done  little  else  in  my 
life  but  make  plans.  What  absurd  thing  have  n't 
I  undertaken  ?  As  quick  as  I  was  out  of  school, 
and  that  was  altogether  too  quick,  I  can  tell  you,  I 
began  to  have  these  plans  to  get  a  little  more 


A  Foolish  Girl  87 

money  to  buy  the  endless  gloves  and  gowns  and 
the  rest  of  the  gimcracks  that  women  need.  My 
goodness,  George  !  why  don't  gowns  and  gloves 
and  the  rest  of  the  things  grow  ready  for  our  pick- 
ing? Fancy,  though,  how  we  lovely  creatures 
would  scratch  each  other's  eyes  out,  getting  the 
best  of  each  other ! "  George  laughs,  and  Ada 
goes  on.  "  I  used  to  make  yards  and  yards  of  tat- 
ting, and  sell  it  to  my  mother's  acquaintances,  in 
those  early  school-days.  I  think  they  knew  how 
hard  up  we  were,  and  started  me  somehow  on  that 
little  commercial  track  purposely.  After  that  I 
tried  my  various  small  accomplishments  in  numer- 
ous ways,  winding  up  with  that  inevitable  conclu- 
sion for  all  single  women  of  small  means,  or  of  no 
means  at  all  —  teaching.  I  dare  say,  I  'm  ungrate- 
ful and  undeserving.  I  don't  defend  myself,  but 
now  I  'm  quarreling  with  that.  George,  you  may 
laugh,  but,  seriously  and  honestly,  I  am  disgusted 
with  myself.  Any  other  girl  would  have  settled 
into  a  respectable  worker  by  this  time,  but  I  seem 
to  fly  out  at  everything;  and  it  is  because  I  am 
cantankerous,  I  suppose.  If  I  go  on  like  this  — 
and  I  'm  likely  to  for  aught  I  see* —  I  shall  bring 
up  in  the  poor-house." 

At  this  concluding  sentence  George's  heart  goes 
up  like  a  feather,  and  he  draws  a  long  breath. 

"  What  ?s  the  matter,  George  ?  are  your  lungs  af- 
fected ?  "  asks  Miss  Payne. 


88  A  Foolish  Girl. 

"  No,  it 's  my  heart,"  answers  George  quite  se- 
riously. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  The  result  of  that  overwork. 
Just  as  I  said.  Americans  are  always  killing  them- 
selves with  work.  I  'm  on  the  same  road  to  de- 
struction, only  mine  is  fretting  over  the  work ;  but 
it 's  all  the  same,  it  's  the  necessity." 

"  Miss  Ada,  I  don't  see  why  you  don't  get  some- 
body to  do  your  work  for  you.  I  —  I  "  —  and 
George  looks  like  a  fool  and  fidgets  with  his  great 
crop  of  red  beard  —  "I  know  one  fellow  who 
would  be  very  glad  to  do  it." 

"  George ! " 

King  nearly  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  taking  me  up  in  that 
way.  I  suppose  any  man  might  be  expected  to 
think  a  woman  was  flinging  herself  at  his  head, 
who  had  been  going  on  as  I  have.  But  I  did  think 
you  knew  me  better." 

"  Miss  Ada,  Miss  Ada,  I  had  n't  such  an  idea. 
I  had  n't,  on  my  honor.  I  knew  you  never  thought 
of  me  but  as  your  friend.  You  were  speaking  to 
me  as  a  man  might  speak  to  another." 

"  I  was  n't !  "  retorted  Miss  Ada.  "  I  was  speak- 
ing to  you  like  the  most  foolish  of  women  —  fret- 
ting, complaining,  when  there  was  no  earthly  use 
in  it." 

"  The   reason  I  spoke  as  I  did,"  poor  George 


A  Foolish  Girl.  89 

went  on  explaining,  "  was  because  I  could  n't  help 
wishing  that  I  might  serve  you  in  the  only  way  I 
could  ;  for  I  've  never  forgotten  what  I  said  two 
years  ago,  Miss  Ada." 

A  moment's  silence,  in  which  Miss  Payne  re- 
gards the  downcast  face  of  her  companion  with 
curious  scrutiny.  Then,  quite  in  another  key,  she 
breaks  out,  — 

"  George,  you  may  thank  your  stars  you  are  not 
rich." 

The  young  man  looks  up  in  amazement.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  I  mean  that  if  you  were  rich  I  should  be  base 
enough  to  marry  you." 

"  Ada !  "  The  light  that  was  never  on  sea  or 
land  flashes  over  George  King's  face.  Miss  Payne 
looks  a  little  frightened  at  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"Don't  mistake  me,  George,"  she  hurried  on. 
"  I  do  not  mean  —  George,  if  1  loved  you  I  would 
marry  you  to-morrow  as  you  are." 

King's  face  flushed  and  paled ;  but  all  the  light 
went  out  of  it. 

"  I  've  said  a  horrid  thing,  I  know  —  a  selfish 
thing;  but  I  'm  not  so  bad  as  I  might  be,  for, 
George,  if  you  were  made  of  gold,  I  could  n't  marry 
you  if  I  did  n't  like  you." 

George  lifted  up  his  head  again  with  a  quick  mo- 
tion. "  Thank  you  for  saying  that,  Miss  Adelaide/' 
he  responded. 


90  A  Foolish  Girl 

"  I  don't  deserve  any  thanks  ;  I  owed  so  much  to 
you,  George." 

"  You  don't  owe  me  anything,  Miss  Ada,"  an- 
swers George  in  his  kindest  tone.  There  is  a  pause ; 
presently  :  — 

"  Miss  Ada,  if  you  feel  that  way  about  —  about 
money,  you  know,  I  don't  see  why  you  have  n't 
found  some  one  who  —  who  "  — 

"  Who  was  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  rich  man  — 
is  that  what  you  mean  ?  "  asks  Miss  Payne,  extri- 
cating George  from  his  sentence  with  that  straight- 
forward celerity  of  hers. 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  I  mean,  exactly,"  assents 
George. 

A  little  ejaculation  of  impatience  from  Miss 
Payne,  and  then  :  — 

"  George,  it  is  only  in  novels  that  the  rich  man 
appears  in  the  nick  of  time  —  the  rich  man  who  is 
a  decent  sort  of  person,  in  the  same  class  or  rank 
with  the  young  woman  who  wishes  to  dispose  of 
herself.  Miss  Braddon  manufactures  that  desir- 
able parti  with  the  greatest  ease.  Her  heroines 
get  into  difficulties,  that  is,  they  find  themselves 
poorer  than  church  mice,  with  not  an  idea  where 
their  next  pair  of  gloves  is  coming  from,  when  up 
pops  the  inevitable  rich  man,  who  is  just  as  inevi- 
tably a  gentleman  with  whom  almost  any  girl  in  her 
senses  would  be  in  love  anyway.  I  don't  know 


A  Foolish  Girl.  91 

such  rich  men  ;  I  know,  instead,  a  little  wizen-faced 
horror  —  a  widower  of  sixty,  who  is  not  a  gentle- 
man. He  sits  in  front  of  us  at  St.  Michael's,  and 
stares  at  me,  the  wretch !  every  Sunday.  They 
say  he  's  rolling  in  wealth ;  and  he  got  it  at  some 
dirty  business  to  which  no  gentleman  would  stoop. 
And  I  know  another  rich  man,  an  old  bachelor,  who 
eats  his  dinner  in  his  shirt-sleeves  summer  and  win- 
ter, and  who  sits  on  his  front  door-step,  which  is 
opposite  Aunt  Ann's,  in  the  same  beastly  fashion 
of  demi-toilet.  I  believe  both  these  specimens  are 
millionaires,  and  I  'd  rather  risk  the  poor-house  — 
good  gracious,  I  'd  rather  kill  myself  outright  — 
than  marry  either  of  them !  " 

"  I  should  think  so ! "  ejaculated  George  King 
with  emphasis.  For  a  few  moments  there  is  silence 
between  them.  George  breaks  it  by  saying,  — 

"  You  put  a  morbid  value  upon  money,  I  think, 
Miss  Ada  ?  " 

"  George,  you  don't  know  what  you  're  talking 
about,"  begins  Adelaide,  vehemently.  "  If  you  had 
all  your  life  felt  the  want  of  money  as  I  have  —  if 
you  had  seen  those  you  loved  pinched  and  strait- 
ened day  after  day,  with  always  a  dread  before  you 
of  perhaps  greater  pinching  and  straits,  which  you 
were  powerless  to  alleviate  —  I  wonder  if  you  or 
any  other  man  would  n't  put  what  you  call  a  mor- 
bid value  on  money." 


92  A  Foolish  Girl. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  I  should,"  King  answers,  with 
a  sympathetic  tone  in  his  voice. 

And  here,  the  young  Carney  girls  coming  in,  the 
talk  ends.  They  all  know  George  King,  and  all 
like  him,  and  standing  about  him  ask  a  whirlwind 
of  questions.  A  little  Carney  suddenly  says,  — 

"  Oh,  why  did  n't  you  come  before,  Mr.  King,  so 
as  to  go  back  with  us  next  week  to  America  ?  " 

"  Next  week  ?  "  asks  George. 

"  Yes,  next  week,  in  the  Calabria,  papa  said  to- 
day when  we  were  out  driving." 

Next  week,  when  the  Calabria  sails,  George 
King  is  one  of  the  passengers. 

"  Thought  you  were  ordered  here  for  your  health, 
King.  Are  n't  you  leaving  rather  soon  ?  "  asks  Mr. 
Carney. 

"  Oh,  one  place  is  as  good  as  another  for  that 
matter,  sir.  It 's  the  sea  voyage  that  I  need." 

"  Um  —  yes,  sea  voyages  are  excellent  for  some 
diseases.  What  was  the  trouble,  King  —  some- 
thing about  the  lungs  ?  " 

"  No ;  something  about  the  heart,"  George  an- 
swers with  great  gravity. 

"  Oh,"  and  Mr.  Carney  looks  into  George's  face 
for  a  minute  and  then  walks  on.  Meeting  his  wife, 
presently,  he  says,  "  Kitty,  King  is  spooney  on  Ade- 
laide, I  've  found  out." 

"  To  be  sure  he  is  !  that  's  an  old  story." 


A  Foolish  Girl.  93 

"  Oh,  it  is,  eh  ?  Why  does  n't  he  speak  up 
then  ?  " 

"  Speak  up  !  my  dear,  are  you  blind  not  to  see 
that  George  is  hankering  after  the  girl,  and  that 
she  does  n't  care  a  button  for  him  ?  " 

"  That  's  it,  eh  ?  Well,  she  '11  go  further  and 
fare  worse  in  my  opinion." 

"  In  my  opinion,  too ;  but  it  's  of  no  use  to  say 
anything  to  Adelaide,  she  's  so  headstrong."  But 
nevertheless  Mrs.  Carney  did  say  something  to 
Adelaide  on  this  subject ;  and  Adelaide  met  it  with 
this  declaration  :  "  But  I  'm  not  in  love  with  George 
King,  Mrs.  Carney.  I  like  him  for  a  friend  very 
much,  but  I  don't  love  him." 

"  I  suppose  you  've  got  some  romantic  ideal  in 
your  head,  Ada." 

"  I  don't  know  about  it 's  being  very  romantic ; 
but  I  suppose  every  girl  has  what  you  call  an  ideal ; 
that  is,  she  knows  what  kind  of  a  man  would  at- 
tract her  most." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  this  man,  Ada  ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly  ;  "  and  Adelaide  laughs  a  little 
and  colors. 

"  And  you  never  will ! "  cries  Mrs.  Carney  tri- 
umphantly. 

A  pause  ensues  while  Adelaide  counts  the  stitches 
in  a  piece  of  worsted  work  she  is  setting  up  for 
Mrs.  Carney.  Presently  Mrs.  Carney  breaks  the 
pause : — 


94  A  Foolish  Girl 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he,  Adelaide  ?  " 

"  What  man  ?  "  asks  Adelaide,  looking  up  in  as- 
tonishment. 

4<  Why,  this  ideal  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  with  some  impatience,  and  then  in  the 
"  headstrong  "  way  :  — 

"  There  's  one  thing  —  he  's  a  real  masculine 
man,  a  man's  man.  I  hate  women's  men  !  " 

"Well,  George  King  is  a  man's  man,  as  you 
phrase  it,  I  should  think,  though  he  does  n't  blus- 
ter round  like  that  Major  Roberts  you  girls  used  to 
think  so  much  of." 

Adelaide's  face  suddenly  flushed  a  deep,  painful 
red  ;  and  Mrs.  Carney,  who  is  looking  at  her,  turned 
away  —  enlightened.  If  Adelaide  could  have  heard 
her  thought !  "  So  it 's  that  disagreeable  Roberts 
that  keeps  her  from  knowing  a  better  man  when 
she  sees  him !  " 

The  two  were  in  Mrs.  Carney's  state-room  all 
this  time.  When  they  went  on  deck,  a  few  minutes 
later,  a  new  acquaintance  awaited  them  —  a  trifling 
circumstance  enough  on  many,  on  most,  occasions 
perhaps,  but  on  this  occasion  it  is  destined  to  be  an 
event  which  will  mark  with  change  the  course  of 
two  lives  at  least.  The  day  is  lovely  — a  blue  sky, 
a  fresh  soft  breeze,  and  the  waves  dancing  in  the 
unclouded  sunshine.  Under  such  influences  the 
sea  invalids  find  their  way  to  the  deck,  some  for 


A  Foolish  airl.  95 

the  first  time.  The  Carneys  are  all  in  a  little  group 
together,  and  George  King  is  with  them  because 
Adelaide  is  with  them.  He  is  just  saying  to  Ade- 
laide :  — 

"  How  fortunate  it  is  for  you  that  you  are  not 
seasick  ;  if  you  had  been  "  —  and  here  he  stops 
abruptly,  and  Adelaide  turns  to  see  the  cause.  He 
is  looking  at  some  one  or  something  away  from  her, 
with  an  expression  of  absorbed  astonishment,  arid 
another  expression,  mixed  up  with  the  astonishment, 
which  Adelaide  cannot  fathom.  She  follows  the 
direction  of  his  eyes,  and  sees  —  a  pretty,  pale  girl, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  an  elderly  gentleman.  The 
next  thing,  George  says,  absently,  "  Excuse  me  a 
moment,"  and  starts  off  toward  these  new-comers. 
Presently  Adelaide  sees  something  else  that  sets 
her  thinking  —  a  sudden,  vivid  blush  upon  the  pale 
face  which  makes  it  charming.  After  what  seems  to 
be  the  most  cordial  of  greetings  George  comes  run- 
ning back  and  addresses  himself  to  Mrs.  Carney. 
Will  she  permit  him  to  introduce  her  to  some  friends 
of  his  ?  They  were  very  kind  to  him  at  Hong  Kong 
last  year,  —  American  residents  there  like  himself, 
—  Mr.  Maynard  and  his  daughter.  Mrs.  Carney  is 
"  delighted  "  in  her  cordial  way,  and  goes  off  with 
George,  leaning  on  his  arm.  In  a  little  while  they 
all  come  back  together  to  what  Mrs.  Carney  calls 
the  "  Carney  corner,"  and  Adelaide  is  introduced  to 


96  A  Foolish  Girl. 

"  Mr.  Maynard  and  his  daughter."  The  pretty  pale 
face  brightens  now  and  then  into  positive  beauty, 
and  Adelaide  very  soon  perceives  that  Miss  May- 
nard in  health  is  probably  a  brilliant  girl,  both  per- 
sonally and  mentally. 

"  I  know  you  will  like  each  other,"  George  sud- 
denly says  in  an  undertone  to  Adelaide.  "  She 
is  n't  at  her  best  now,  on  account  of  a  long  illness. 
They  left  Hong  Kong  last  year  for  this  reason.  A 
few  months  after  I  heard  that  she  had  died  at 
Florence.  You  can  understand  my  more  than 
amazement  on  seeing  her  just  now.  I  believe  for 
a  moment  I  thought  it  was  her  ghost,"  and  George 
laughs  in  an  embarrassed  sort  of  way  which  is  new 
to  him.  Adelaide,  who  is  usually  the  most  unob- 
servant person,  probably  because  she  is  so  occupied 
with  those  little  plans  of  hers,  takes  note  of  this 
embarrassment,  and  of  various  other  ways  that  are 
new  to  her,  before  the  day  is  ended.  Mrs.  Carney 
has  also  been  observant,  which  is  not  so  unusual, 
and  that  night  she  comes  into  the  state-room  which 
Adelaide  occupies  with  Belle  Carney,  her  own 
small  eldest  daughter,  who  is  fast  asleep,  as  a  little 
pitcher  with  very  big  ears  should  be  —  comes  in  to 
free  her  mind,  to  say  in  an  injured  sort  of  tone,  — 
"  Adelaide,  that  girl  is  in  love  with  George." 
"  And  what  about  George,  Mrs.  Carney  ?  "  Ade- 
laide asks  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 


A  Foolish  Girl.  97 

"  Well  —  George  acts  queerly." 

"  I  should  think  he  did,"  the  touch  of  scorn  deep- 
ening. "My  opinion  is  that  George  has  been,  if 
he  is  n't  now,  as  much  in  love  with  '  that  girl/  as 
you  call  her,  as  she  with  him  ;  but  evidently  the 
course  of  true  love  did  n't  run  smoothly  —  Papa 
Maynard  standing  in  the  way,  as  a  relentless  par- 
ent perhaps,"  and  Adelaide  repeats  George's  little 
confidence  about  Miss  Maynard's  illness,  her  leav- 
ing Hong  Kong,  and  the  news  of  her  death,  not  for- 
getting George's  embarrassment  at  the  end.  "  You 
see,  Mrs.  Carney,"  she  concludes,  "  that  George 
only  heard  of  her  incidentally,  which  to  my  mind 
is  the  indication  of  the  little  hitch  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  his  romance." 

"  You  may  be  right,  Adelaide  ;  but  it 's  very  sur- 
prising, the  whole  of  it." 

"  Surprising  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  George  is 
like  the  rest  of  his  sex,  I  suppose.  *He  must  be 
making  love  to  somebody.  But  this  pretty  well 
upsets  your  theory  of  Master  George's  devotion  to 
your  humble  servant.  You  discover  now  how  much 
that  is  worth  —  how  easily  he  consoles  himself." 

*•  But  if  you  've  always  discouraged  him,  Ada  — 
and  in  these  two  years,  you  know,  with  no  hope  of 
you,  and  this  girl  near  at  hand  — why,  it 's  perfectly 
natural  "  — 

•k  Two  years !  "  Adelaide  repeats  ;  and  then  she 

7 


98  A  Foolish  Girl. 

confides  to  Mrs.  Carney,  George's  words  to  her  at 
the  little  Breton  watering-place  :  "For  I've  never 
forgotten  what  1  said  two  years  ago,  Miss  Ada." 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  is  Mrs.  Carney's  emphatic  ex- 
clamation. 

"  Not  that  it  makes  any  difference  to  me,"  Ade- 
laide goes  on.  "  It 's  nothing  to  me,  of  course, 
to  whom  he  makes  love  ;  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to 
have  him  running  after  me  ;  I  've  none  of  that  sort 
of  vanity.  But  it  does  make  one  feel  disappointed 
in  human  nature  to  see  such  uncertainty  of  purpose 
in  a  man." 

"  So  it  does,  dear,"  declares  Mrs.  Carney,  in  sym- 
pathetic indignation. 

"  It  was  so  weak  of  George  to  say  what  he  did 
to  me  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  he  believed  it  was  the  truth, 
Ada,  then.  Men  are  so  queer  about  us  women  !  " 
Mrs.  Carney  replies,  with  an  air  of  wisdom. 

"  Yes,  he  believed  it  until  he  suddenly  saw  the 
ghost  of  Miss  Maynard,  probably.  Well,  I  don't 
care  anything  about  it,  I  'm  sure.  Yes,  I  do  —  I 
do  care ! "  Adelaide  bursts  out  with  that  quick 
candor  of  hers,  that  honesty  of  heart  which  has 
always  made  her  friends  pardon  every  fault.  "  I 
do  care  !  George  was  my  ideal  of  a  friend ;  he 
seemed  like  a  rock  to  me,  and  I  can't  have  that 
feeling  any  more,  can  I  ?  I've  lost  my  friend;  or 


A  Foolish  Girl  99 

I  never  had  him,  I  only  had  a  fancy,  that 's  the 
truth  of  it." 

"  My  dear,  Jack  says"  —  Jack  is  Mr.  Carney  — 
"that  we  women  are  fools  about  men  ;  that  we  ex- 
pect them  to  be  heroes  of  romance  all  the  time." 

u  I  hate  men,  any  how  !  —  disagreeable,  disap- 
pointing creatures,  you  never  know  where  to  find 
'em  !  "  Adelaide  suddenly  snaps  out. 

Mrs.  Carney  laughs.  "  Not  so  bad  as  that,  Ada, 
I  hope;  but  I  think,  myself,  that  women  are  more 
to  be  trusted." 

The  next  minute  she  says  good-night  and  goes 
straight  to  her  own  state-room,  and  repeats  the  en- 
tire conversation  to  Mr.  Carney,  who  exasperates 
her  by  going  off  into  shouts  of  merriment  and  mak- 
ing certain  criticisms  and  prophecies,  which  he  is  in- 
formed by  his  wife  are  very  wide  of  the  mark,  and 
shows  that  he  knows  very  little  of  women  and  their 
peculiar  natures  ;  whereat  he  laughs  again,  and  pro- 
vokingly  remarks,  "  Well,  we  '11  see,  Kitty  —  we  '11 
see." 

The  Calabria  makes  a  speedy  voyage  and  a  pleas- 
ant one.  Cloudless  skies  and  soft  breezes  most  of 
the  time  bring  gay  groups  upon  the  deck.  None 
seem  to  enjoy  themselves  more  than  the  Carney 
party.  Miss  Maynard  discovers  both  wit  and  hu- 
mor ;  her  father  is  full  of  genial  bonhomie ;  and 
Geoi-oe  comes  out  so  strong  as  a  brilliant  talker 


100  A  Foolish  Girl. 

that  Adelaide,  who  has  generally  known  him  only 
as  a  listener,  looks  in  amazement.  But  Adelaide 
doesn't  enjoy  the  party.  Miss  Maynard  is  too 
much  for  her.  She  confesses  to  herself  that  the 
young  lady  is  cultivated  and  accomplished.  "  But 
all  that  talk  about  Hong  Kong  —  I  don't  see  what 
you  can  find  interesting  in  it,"  she  remarks  to  Mrs. 
Carney,  when  that  lady  comments  on  the  delight- 
fulness  of  this  very  talk.  *•  I  detest  personal  rem- 
iniscences ;  I  always  feel  left  out  and  lonesome 
when  they  are  not  my  personal  reminiscences  ;  and 
I  think  they  are  in  bad  taste,  too,  in  general  so- 
ciety." 

Mrs.  Carney,  who  cannot  help  finding  Miss  May- 
nard charming,  says  something  laughingly  to  Ade- 
laide about  being  a  dog  in  the  manger.  And  Ade- 
laide replies  in  great  scorn  :  — 

44 1  'm  not  a  dog  in  the  manger.  George  may 
marry  her  to-morrow  for  what  I  care.  He  isn't 
my  friend  any  more,  as  I  told  you.  But  Miss  May- 
nard and  I  are  antipathetic;  I  felt  it  from  the 
fir>t." 

44  But,  Adelaide,  you  were  so  distant  from  the 
first." 

44 1  never  liked  that  kind  of  girl,"  pursues  Ade- 
laide, without  taking  any  heed  of  Mrs.  Carney's 
suggestion.  And  Mrs.  Carney,  as  she  turns  a\vav. 
says  to  herself,  "  Um,  I  don't  know  after  all  but 


A  Foolish  Girl.  101 

Jack  may  be  right."  But  not  to  Jack  does  she  con- 
fide this  sudden  going  over  to  his  opinion.  She 
keeps  it  bravely  to  herself,  though  that  is  the  dull- 
est work  always  for  Mrs.  Carney,  who  has  the 
keenest  relish  for  "  talking  things  over."  She  can- 
not, however,  bring  herself  to  face  Jack's  laugh, 
and  the  "  I  told  you  so "  expression  which  she 
knows  would  dawn  in  his  eyes  at  her  confession. 
She  consoles  herself,  however,  for  her  silence  by 
the  observation  which  she  takes  from  her  new 
stand-point.  And  what  does  she  see?  She  sees 
Adelaide  a  little  apart,  self -withdrawn  and  silent. 
She  sees  George  more  active  than  usual  in  all  ex- 
ternal ways.  He  talks  a  good  deal  with  Miss  May- 
nard  and  very  little  with  Adelaide,  which  is  quite 
unlike  the  old  way  of  things  ;  but  this  may  be 
the  result  of  circumstances.  Adelaide*  certainly  is 
not  very  approachable.  Several  times  George  has 
made  little  overtures  which  have  been  met  with 
anything  but  encouragement.  And  there  was  Miss 
Maynard  smiling  and  friendly,  and  with  all  that 
background  of  the  Hong  Kong  life,  so  fresh  in 
both  their  minds,  the  discussion  of  which  was  a 
matter  of  entertainment  to  everybody  but  Adelaide 
There  was  the  invalidism  of  Miss  Maynard,  too, 
which  would  call  out  a  hundred  and  one  atten- 
tions. But  underneath  all  this  there  was  some- 
thing else,  some  under-current  which  watchful  Mrs. 


102  A  Foolish 

Carney  began  to  feel.  George  had  recovered  from 
his  embarrassment ;  he  no  longer  acted  "  queerly." 
But  what  was  it,  what  link  in  the  past,  in  those 
Hong  Kong  days,  made  a  present  atmosphere 
of  unacknowledged  intimacy  ?  Adelaide,  sitting 
wrapped  in  her  waterproof  and  her  silence,  feels 
this  atmosphere  very  sensibly,  feels  it  and  rebels 
against  it,  all  the  while  she  is  saying  to  herself  per- 
haps, "  George  is  n't  my  friend  ;  it 's  nothing  to  me 
what  he  does." 

But  George  makes  one  more  venture  of  friend- 
ship. It  is  just  as  the  journey  comes  to  an  end, 
and  they  are  all  about  to  separate.  He  leaves  Miss 
Maynard  to  her  father  then,  and  resolutely  attaches 
himself  to  Adelaide,  attending  her  with  his  usual 
unobtrusive  courtesy,  until  he  seats  her  in  the  car- 
riage. 

"  You  '11  come  and  see  us  soon,"  says  good-nat- 
ured Mrs.  Carney,  leaning  out  of  the  window  as 
the  carriage  drives  away.  And  just  as  George  is 
lifting  his  hat  to  them,  another  carriage  whirls  by, 
and  Miss  Maynard's  voice  cries  out,  shrill  and  gay : 
"  At  the  Fifth  Avenue  !  remember,  Mr.  King." 

"Hong  Kong  must  be  a  good  school  for  famili- 
arity of  manners,  I  should  say,"  Adelaide  remarks 
snappishly,  drawing  down  her  veil. 

Mrs.  Carney  bethinks  herself  of  Adelaide's  old 
free-and-easiness  in  ordering  George  about,  and 


A  Foolish  Girl.  103 

says  nothing ;  and  Adelaide,  fatuous  young  woman, 
congratulates  herself  as  she  goes  up  to  her  room 
that  night  that  she  has  turned  her  back  upon  her 
bete  noire  —  that  forward  Miss  Maynard.  But,  alas 
for  these  self-congratulations  !  Before  a  month  has 
transpired,  Miss  Maynard  is  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Mrs.  Carney's,  Mrs.  Carney  having  taken  one  of 
her  great  fancies  for  that  young  lady.  So  the  old 
shipboard  society  meets  again  without  a  break,  but 
with  a  variety  which  makes  a  great  difference  to 
Adelaide,  for  of  this  variety  there  is  one  man  of 
whom  we  have  heard  before  —  the  Major  Roberts 
of  Mrs.  Carney's  detestation.  This  gentleman  has 
the  kind  of  good  looks  that  men's  men,  like  Jack 
Carney,  call  "  showy,"  and  women,  especially  quite 
young  women,  speak  of  as  "  so  fascinating !  "  and 
"  a  Guy  Livingston  sort  of  man,  you  know."  It 
is  needless  to  dilate  upon  this  gentleman's  popular- 
ity in  feminine  circles.  We  all  of  us  know  how 
fascinating  to  the  ordinary  feminine  fancy  is  the 
Guy  Livingston  type  of  man,  or  a  faint  resem- 
blance to  that  type.  Adelaide,  it  would  appear 
from  Mrs.  Carney's  hints,  has  long  ago  succumbed 
to  this  fascination,  and  it  would  appear  also,  from 
the  nature  of  these  hints,  that  she  may  have  been 
in  some  sort  a  victim  —  one  of  those  upon  whom 
the  king  smiled  but  to  ride  away ;  and  this  is  not 
far  from  the  fact.  Two  or  three  years  ago  Ade- 


104  A  Foolish  Girl. 

laide  had  met  Major  Roberts,  and  been  the  recip- 
ient of  his  attentions  until  he  had  been  ordered 
away  on  a  foreign  cruise.  Perhaps  before  he  suih-d 
the  girl  had  discovered  that  she  was  only  one  of 
Major  Roberts's  "  friends."  But  this  discovery 
seemed  to  cast  no  discredit  upon  Major  Roberts  in 
her  estimation ;  to  take  nothing  from  the  glamour 
with  which  he  was  invested.  He  had  never  com- 
mitted himself.  He  had  only  looked  now  and  then 
unfathomable  things  from  his  handsome  dark  eyes  ; 
had,  in  fact,  just  evaded  decided  responsible  love- 
making,  and  thus  cleverly  contrived  to  leave  him- 
self entirely  free  from  responsible  intentions,  with- 
out losing  the  admiration  of  the  girl  he  so  success- 
fully "  left  behind  him."  If  you  had  told  Adelaide 
that  she  was  in  love  with  Major  Roberts,  she  would 
have  scouted  the  accusation  indignantly,  but  she 
would  color  and  her  heart  would  beat  in  answering 
you.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was,  no  doubt,  that 
she  was  in  love  with  love,  and  Major  Roberts,  with 
his  handsome  figure,  his  fine  eyes,  and  great  splendid 
dark  beard,  seemed  to  represent  her  ideal,  to  em- 
body her  fancy ;  and  now  here  he  was  back  again 
from  his  two  years'  cruise,  with  a  bronze  tinge  to 
his  brilliant  complexion,  which  enhanced  his  Guy 
Livingston  style  wonderfully ;  here  he  was  back, 
"  and  at  his  old  tricks  again,"  said  indignant  Mrs. 
Carney,  as  she  noted  his  decoue  attentions  to  Ade- 


A  Foolish  Girl.  105 

laide  —  "  attentions  which  mean  nothing,  just  noth- 
ing at  all  !  "  the  little  woman  indignantly  explained 
to  her  husband.  What  was  her  astonishment  when 
her  husband  responded  :  — 

"  But  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Kitty.  When 
Roberts  was  hanging  round  two  years  ago  he 
hadn't  a  dollar  besides  his  pay,  and  now,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Carney,  Mr.  Lothario  has  rather  a  nice  fort- 
une which  his  father  left  him  last  year." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  exclaims  Mrs.  Carney  ; 
and  then  she  goes  on,  "  but  how  will  that  alter 
matters  with  such  a  selfish  fellow  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  selfish  fellow  can  afford  to  please 
himself,  Mrs.  Carney." 

Mrs.  Carney  was  silent  in  meditation.  If  this 
was  true,  here  was  the  very  opportunity  that  Ade- 
laide had  always  desired  —  the  rich  man  whom  she 
could  love.  But  if  it  ivas  true,  what  of  Jack's  lit- 
tle theory  ?  and  with  a  small  spice  of  triumph  she 
puts  this  question  to  Jack  himself.  But  Jack  only 
laughs  and  quotes,  — 

"  There 's  many  a  slip ;  " 

and  so  the  conversation  ends.  But  not  so  do  Mrs. 
Carney's  speculations  and  observations  end.  Keep- 
ing a  sharp  lookout,  after  her  sociable  fashion,  she 
sees  that  "  there  is  something  in  "  Jack's  idea,  for 
she  sees  that  Major  Roberta's  attentions  to  Ade- 


106  A  Foolish 

laide  at  this  time  have  a  certain  quality  of  ear- 
nestness that  they  have  never  had  before.  All  this 
time  there  is  George  King  coming  and  going,  and 
Miss  Maynard  also  a  constant  visitor.  To  Mrs. 
Carney,  who  had  planned  her  own  little  programme, 
this  was  a  game  of  cross  purposes  ;  yet  even  now 
she  could  not  make  Adelaide  out.  The  girl  did  not 
seem  to  be  conscious  of  a  change  in  Major  Roberts. 
Her  manner  to  him  was  as  it  had  been  almost  from 
the  first  of  this  second  meeting  —  a  queer  union  of 
gay  excitement  and  irritability.  Mrs.  Carney,  al- 
ways a  match-maker,  wonders  at  this  crisis  if  she 
had  n't  better  have  a  little  talk  with  Adelaide  and 
enlighten  her,  perhaps  ;  "  for  the  girl,  I  believe, 
thinks  he  is  fooling  with  her  in  the  old  fashion," 
she  says  to  Jack.  But  Jack  Carney  replies,  like 
the  man  of  sense  he  is  :  — 

"You  just  let  things  work  their  own  way,  little 
woman." 

It  would  seem  that  others  besides  Jack  Carney 
have  noted  and  commented  upon  Major  Roberts's 
earnestness  in  his  present  pursuit ;  for  one  day  an 
old  admirer  of  Adelaide's,  meeting  Mr.  Carney, 
says :  "  So  Roberts  is  going  to  range  himself,  eh, 
as  our  French  friends  would  express  it  ?  going  to 
marry  the  little  Payne  girl  ?  Nice  girl  and  a  very 
nice  thing  for  her ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  —  I  dare  say  it's  a  nice 
thing  for  Roberts." 


A  Foolish  Girl.  107 

"Oh,  you  don't  like  Roberts,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  I  like  Roberts  well  enough,  but  I  don't 
think  this  ranging  of  his,  as  you  call  it,  is  a  partic- 
ularly nice  thing  for  the  little  Payne  girl.' ' 

The  young  man  laughs  and  goes  away  to  tell  his 
friends  that  Jack  Carney  does  n't  think  much  of 
Roberts.  About  the  time  that  this  conversation  is 
taking  place  Major  Roberts  is  leaving  the  Carney 
mansion  after  rather  a  prolonged  interview  with 
Miss  Payne.  Mrs.  Carney  is  on  the  qui  vive  up 
stairs  ;  for  did  n't  Major  Roberts,  on  entering  the 
library  and  finding  her  in  possession,  say  to  her 
with  a  significant  smile  that  he  should  like  to  see 
Miss  Payne  alone  and  uninterrupted  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, thus  plainly  indicating  his  errand  and  his 
own  confidence  in  the  result  ?  But  Adelaide  does 
not  immediately  leave  the  library  after  Major  Rob- 
erts's  exit.  Minute  after  minute  goes  by,  until 
the  little  clock  on  the  shelf  has  struck  the  half 
hour  twice.  Mrs.  Carney  can  stand  it  no  longer. 
Perhaps  Ada  is  shy ;  perhaps  she  is  afraid  that 
Mr.  Carney  is  up  stairs  ;  and  so,  fraudulently  for- 
tifying herself,  Mrs.  Carney  goes  down  to  the  li- 
brary. 

"  Well,  Ada,"  she  says  gayly,  "  why  did  n't  you 
come  up  and  tell  me  the  good  news?  I've  been 
waiting  a  whole  hour  for  you !  "  Ada  turns  her 
face  from  the  window.  What  a  curious  look  there 


108  A  Foolish  G-h-L 

is  upon  it,  and  what  a  curious  tone  in  her  voice  as 
she  says  :  — 

**  I  had  nothing  to  tell,  Mrs.  Carney." 

"  Nothing  to  tell !  "  and  Mrs.  Carney  in  a  few 
unguarded  sentences,  in  her  usual  reckless  fashion, 
lets  out  her  own  little  interview  with  Major  Rob- 
erts and  its  significance  to  her. 

Then  Adelaide  finds  her  tongue,  and  a  red  flush 
comes  into  her  pale  cheek  at  the  same  time. 

"  If  Major  Roberts  advertises  his  confidence  like 
this,  then  I  am  certainly  justified  in  saying  that 
Major  Roberts  made  a  mistake,  and  that  I  was  not 
to  be  had.  as  he  thought,  for  his  asking." 

"  What !  you  don't  mean  to  say,  Adelaide,  that 
you  have  rejected  Major  Roberts  ?  " 

"  And  why  not,  pray  ?  Better  men  than  Major 
Roberts  have  been  rejected  !  " 

"  But  I  thought  —  I  supposed  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  thought,  and  everybody,  Ma- 
jor Roberts  included,  thought  that  I  should  only 
be  too  happy  to  pick  up  the  Sultan's  handkerchief 
whenever  he  pleased  to  throw  it ;  but  you  're  all 
mistaken." 

"  But,  Adelaide,  after  our  conversation  "  — 

"  I  never  said  I  liked  Major  Roberts,  never !  " 
interrupted  Adelaide,  passion  vibrating  in  her  tones. 

"  I  'm  not  alluding  to  Major  Roberts,  particu- 
larly, now  ;  I  was  thinking  of  our  conversations 


A  Foolish  Girl.  109 

about  money.  Major  Roberts,  you  know,  has  come 
into  a  fortune  lately." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  I  never  meant  that  I  could 
marry  a  man  without  loving  him,  and  I  don't  love 
Major  Roberts  —  I  don't  like  him,  even,  now.  I 
did  think  once,  two  or  three  years  ago  —  well,  I 
did  think  that  I  was  —  that  he  was  a  sort  of  hero. 
But  since  I  've  seen  him  this  time  I  've  found  out 
my  mistake.  Oh,  Mrs.  Carney,  I've  been  such  a 
fool !  Girls  are  such  fools  !  To  think  I  should 
have  admired  him.  He  is  so  vain,  so  —  artificial ! 
not  a  man's  man  at  all.  as  I  thought  him." 

'"  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  've  found  him  out,  Ada. 
I  never  could  understand  how  you  girls  could  be  so 
deceived  by  that  grand  manner.  But  I  must  say  I 
think  you  've  been  playing  rather  fast  and  loose, 
Ada,  for  you've  certainly  encouraged  Major  Rob- 
erts until  everybody  thought  there  'd  be  but  one 
end  to  the  matter." 

"  I  have  n't  encouraged  him,  Mrs.  Carney  ;  I 
never  thought  he  meant  anything  serious  until  to- 
day." 

"  What  in  the  world  could  you  be  thinking  of, 
then  ?  Everybody  else  had  seen  how  in  earnest 
he  was." 

"  Have  they  ?  well,  much  good  may  it  do  them," 
Adelaide  replies  irritably. 

Mrs.    Carney   is   certainly  an   amiable   woman. 


110  A  Foolish  Girl. 

She  looks  a  moment  at  Adelaide,  as  if  turning  over 
something  in  her  mind,  and  then,  instead  of  keep- 
ing up  the  irritating  subject,  says  kindly  :  — 

44  Come  out  for  a  drive  with  me,  Ada ;  it  will  do 
you  good." 

Jt  is  a  lovely  day,  the  air  full  of  warmth  and 
brightness,  and  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen  in  the  April 
sky.  So  sweet  is  the  influence  of  all  this  warmth 
and  brightness,  this  tender  atmosphere,  that  Ade- 
laide's vexed  spirit  yields  to  it  involuntarily,  and 
something  of  a  girl's  hope  and  lightness  comes  into 
her  heart  and  shines  out  upon  her  face  at  last. 

"  It  really  has  done  you  good,  Ada.  I  have  n't 
seen  you  looking  like-  this  for  a  long  time,"  says 
Mrs.  Carney,  pleasantly  exultant  over  the  effect  of 
her  prescription.  They  are  just  returning  to  the 
city  as  Mrs.  Carney  says  this,  and  Adelaide  is  on 
the  point  of  responding,  of  confessing  how  much 
good  she  has  gained,  when  a  shrill,  clear  voice  cries 
out :  — 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Carney,  Miss  Payne,  how  do  you 
do  ?  Won't  you  come  in  ?  " 

Adelaide  turns  her  head  in  the  direction  from 
whence  the  voice  proceeds,  and  sees  Mi>>  Maynard 
leaning  over  the  gate,  which  shuts  in  a  pretty  green 
lawn,  and  at  her  side  stands  George  King.  The 
coachman  is  ordered  to  pull  up  for  a  moment  — 
just  long  enough  for  Mrs.  Carney  to  ask  about  the 


A  Foolish  Girl  111 

new  house,  and  if  Mr.  Maynard  likes  to  be  so  far 
out  —  if  they  have  got  settled  yet,  etc. ;  and  then 
Miss  Maynard,  as  they  move  off,  says  in  a  quick, 
happy  way  :  — 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  very  soon,  Mrs.  Car- 
ney,—  to  see  you  and  to  bring  you  a  piece  of 
news ; "  and  as  she  speaks  she  moves  her  hand  to 
her  face.  Perhaps  it  is  to  hide  the  rising  blush  in 
her  cheeks,  but  at  the  moment  there  shines  and 
sparkles  out  to  them  a  ray  of  light  and  fire  from 
a  solitaire  diamond. 

"A  great,  impudent  diamond,  Jack,"  is  Mrs. 
Carney's  curious  description,  as  she  tells  her  story 
of  the  day  to  her  husband  that  evening.  "  And  she 
looked  so  detestably  happy,  Jack,  I  could  n't  bear 
her  !  '  Jack  laughs,  as  he  always  does,  at  Mrs. 
Carney's  queer  little  turns,  and  puts  her  in  a  cor- 
ner by  saying  :  — 

"  Thought  you  were  a  great  friend  of  Mary  May- 
nard's,  Kitty  ?  " 

"  I  like  Mary  Maynard  very  well,  but  I  always 
had  a  feeling  that  she  had  laid  herself  out  to  catch 
George,  and  I  hate  that  kind  of  girl,"  is  Mrs.  Car- 
ney's contradictory  reply. 

u  I  see  —  you  had  made  a  new  plan  to  marry 
George  and  Adelaide,  the  moment  you  found  out 
she  'd  given  Roberts  the  go-by  ;  arid  Mary  May- 
nard has  upset  this  plan;  and  you  know,  Kate, 


112  A  Foolish  Girl. 

nothing  ever  vexes  you  like  the  upsetting  of  any 
of  your  little  beneficent  plans  for  other  people's 
felicity." 

-Well,  Jack,  there 's  one  thing:  if  your  little 
theory  "  —  What  more  Mrs.  Carney  would  have 
said  will  never  be  known,  for  at  this  point  a  serv- 
ant interrupts  her  with  the  message  that  Miss  May- 
nard  and  Mr.  King  are  down  stairs. 

"  Did  they  ask  for  Miss  Payne,  Ann  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm,  and  I  spoke  to  her  as  I  came  along,  but 
she  says  she  's  a  headache  and  will  be  excused,  if 
you  please." 

"  Where  is  she,  Ann  ?  " 

"  In  the  school-room,  ma'am." 

The  school-room,  as  it  is  called,  where  Adelaide 
teaches  the  little  Carneys,  is  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  house.  It  is  a  large  room,  cheerful  enough 
when  the  sunshine  is  pouring  in  at  the  southwest 
windows,  but  looking  very  dismal  as  Adelaide  sits 
there  by  a  single  low  light,  and  a  little  chilly  fire 
in  a  wide  grate.  But  it  has  the  virtue  of  being  out 
of  the  way  of  everybody  and  everybody's  noise,  and 
thus  a  very  fitting  place  for  a  person  suffering  with 
headache.  Yet  even  at  this  isolated  distance,  Ade- 
laide can  catch  now  and  then  a  faint,  far  sound  of 
laughter  from  the  drawing-room.  In  vain  .she  tries 
to  fix  her  mind  upon  Miss  Thackeray's  pretty  story 
of  "  Elizabeth,"  which  she  has  brought  up  from  the 


A  Foolish  G-irl.  113 

library ;  for  it  seems  she  does  not  find  her  head- 
ache so  severe  as  to  exclude  her  from  reading,  or 
at  least  an  attempt  at  it.  But  it  is  merely  an  at- 
tempt, not  on  account  of  the  headache,  but  on  ac- 
count of  her  wandering  thoughts.  The  Caroline 
Gilmore  of  Miss  Thackeray's  story  turns  into  Miss 
Maynard  as  she  reads  —  Miss  Maynard,  who  has 
taken  her  friend  away.  John  Dampier  gets  mixed 
up  with  George  King  and  Major  Roberts,  and 
Elly,  poor  Elly,  —  for  she  is  in  the  midst  of  Elly's 
troubles,  —  poor  Elly  suggests  her  own  forlornness  ; 
only  Elly's  case  is  nothing  so  bad  as  hers,  as  the 
saddest  of  written  stories  seem  tame  to  our  own 
stories  when  we  are  living  them.  By  and  by,  over 
the  laughter,  there  comes  a  sound  of  music  ;  there 
are  the  gay  notes  of  the  piano,  and  somebody  is 
singing.  It  is  Miss  Maynard's  far-reaching  soprano, 
which  her  admirers  have  likened  to  Parepa's  dulcet 
tones.  But  Adelaide  shivers  as  she  listens.  She 
has  never  liked  Miss  Maynard,  and  she  hears  no 
sweetness  in  her  voice.  She  makes  another  at- 
tempt to  follow  the  story  of  "  Elizabeth  "  instead 
of  her  own.  She  turns  the  page  and  begins  to 
read  of  Elly's  good  friend,  Miss  Dampier,  and 
straightway  her  thought  flies  back  to  herself  as  she 
thinks  of  Miss  Dampier's  sympathy  and  her  own 
desolation.  If  only  she  had  such  a  wise  friend ! 
Mrs.  Carney  is  kind,  but  riot  like  that  sweet, 


114  A  Foolish  Girl. 

motherly  Miss  Dampier,  to  whom  poor  Elly  could 
confess  everything  —  all  her  foolishness  and  sor- 
row. Just  at  this  point  in  her  comparison  a  door 
opens  somewhere  in  the  upper  hall,  and  the  words 
of  Hatton's  pretty  ballad,  "  Good-by,  sweetheart," 
comes  up  to  her  full  and  clear,  in  Miss  Maynard's 
clear  voice.  The  next  instant  the  song  is  shut 
out  again,  but  somebody  is  coming  down  the  long 
corridor  leading  to  the  school-room.  It  is  very 
unkind  of  Mrs.  Carney  to  send  for  her,  Adelaide 
thinks,  as  the  footsteps  draw  nearer,  and  some  one 
knocks  for  admission.  But  that  is  not  a  servant 
who  enters  at  her  "  Come  in."  She  looks  up 
quickly,  and  sees  —  George  King.  A  little  flush 
of  angry  surprise  rises  into  Adelaide's  face,  which 
deepens  as  George  speaks  :  — 

"Mrs.  Carney  sends  me  up  to  tell  you  Miss 
Maynard's  news,  Miss  Ada." 

Adelaide  can  find  no  words  to  reply,  and  George 
goes  on.  He  is  telling  her  rather  a  long  story,  she 
thinks,  about  Miss  Maynard,  and  Hong  Kong,  and 
a  young  German,  whom  Mr.  Maynard  did  n't  like. 
It  is  all  very  queer  and  confusing  to  Adelaide  — 
she  can't  follow  half  of  it,  until  at  the  end  George 
says,  with  a  laugh  :  — 

"  But  it  is  all  right  now.  Von  Raden  has  been 
promoted  for  his  gallant  conduct  in  the  war,  and 
Mr.  Maynard  can  hold  out  no  longer." 


A  Foolish  Girl.  115 

"Yon  Raden  ?  what  has  he  to  do  with  Miss 
Maynard  ?  "  asks  Adelaide,  bewildered. 

George  laughs  outright. 

"  Well,  I  always  knew  I  was  a  bad  hand  at  tell- 
ing a  story.  Von  Kaden,  Miss  Ada,  is  the  lover 
of  the  piece." 

"  And  you,  George  ?  " 

"  And  I,  Miss  Ada,  am  the  faithful  friend  of  all 
parties  —  of  Von  Raden  especially,  who  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly good  fellow,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Maynard's 
prejudices  against  a  foreigner.  He  will  be  here  in 
the  next  steamer.  Miss  Ada,  and  then  you  will  have 
a  chance  of  seeing  a  very  handsome  young  officer 
of  the  Prussian  army." 

"  George,  was  it  this  secret  about  the  Prussian 
officer  which  made  you  and  Miss  Maynard  blush 
and  look  so  queerly  when  you  met  on  board  the 
Calabria  ?  " 

George  blushes  again  at  this  question  ;  but  he 
laughs  at  the  same  time,  while  he  answers  :  — 

"  No,  it  was  n't  the  secret  about  the  Prussian 
officer ;  it  was  because  Mr.  Maynard  had  taken  it 
into  his  head  that  I  was  a  safer  man  than  the  Prus- 
sian." 

"  He  wanted  you  to  marry  his  daughter  !  " 

"  He  did  n't  want  her  to  marry  the  Prussian, 
Miss  Ada,"  George  replies  modestly.  "  And  it 
was  n't  until  Miss  Maynard  gave  me  her  entire 


116  A  Foolish  Girl 

confidence  about  the  Prussian  —  which  she  did  on 
the  Calabria  —  that  we  were  either  of  us  quite  free 
from  embarrassment  when  we  met,  for  we  had  both 
been  made  aware  of  Mr.  Maynard's  little  plans  in 
regard  to  us." 

"And  I  thought  it  was  you  who  were  Miss 
Maynard's  lover  all  this  time,  and  I  hated  her, 
George !  "  cried  Adelaide,  with  sudden,  reckless 
impulse. 

George  is  leaning  against  the  mantel,  but  at  this 
he  starts  forward  and  looks  eagerly  into  Adelaide's 
face. 

"  Thought  it  was  I,  Miss  Ada  ?  " 
"  And  I  hated  her,  George ! "  Adelaide  repeats 
irrelevantly. 

Down  goes  George  on  one  knee  beside  the  little 
low  chair  that  he  may  get  a  better  view  of  the  oc- 
cupant. "  Adelaide,  do  you  mean,"  he  begins ;  and 
Adelaide,  with  a  great  bright  flush  coloring  her 
cheeks,  answers  honestly  :  — 

"  Yes,  George,  I  mean  that  I  hated  Mary  May- 
nard  for  —  for  your  sake.  I  mean  that  I  've  been 
a  fool,  George,  all  these  years.  I  mean  that  I  was 
so  used  to  having  you  for  my  friend  that  I  did  n't 
know,  until  I  thought  that  Mary  Maynard  was  tak- 
ing my  friend  away,  that "  But  Adelaide's  ve- 
hement confession  has  spent  itself,  and  the  rest 
of  the  sentence  is  inarticulate  upon  George's  coat 


A  Foolish  Girl.  117 

collar,  and  with  George's  arm  about  her  ;  and 
George  is  quite  content  to  ask  no  further  questions 
at  that  moment,  for  he  has  got  his  heart's  desire. 

*'  So  you  were  right  in  your  little  theory,  after 
all,  Jack."  Jack  gives  rather  a  sleepy  yawn  ;  and 
no  wonder,  for  Mrs.  Carney,  just  returned  from  a 
midnight  interview  with  Adelaide,  has  awakened 
him  from  his  first  sleep  to  tell  him  her  great 
news. 

"  My  little  theory  ?  "  he  mutters  sleepily.  "  Oh, 
that  Adelaide  is  in  love  with  King.  I  thought  that 
was  settled  some  time  ago.  I  thought  it  was  King 
you  was  n't  sure  of —  I  thought "  — 

"  Jack,  you  're  talking  in  your  sleep.  Did  n't 
you  hear  me  tell  you  that  it 's  all  settled  between 
Ada  and  George  ?  " 

"  Is  it  ?  Well,  I  am  very  glad  something  is 
settled  for  that  foolish  girl  you  and  King  are 
so  fond  of ; "  and  with  these  words  Jack  Carney 
turns  his  face  to  the  wall  and  goes  back  to  the 
dreams  that  Mrs.  Carney  has  so  ruthlessly  inter- 
rupted. 

In  the  days  that  follow,  while  there  is  much  re- 
joicing in  the  house  of  Carney  over  this  foolish 
girl,  the  dear,  discerning  world,  with  its  usual  sa- 
gacity, hits  the  nail  on  the  head  in  this  wise :  — 

So  Adelaide  Payne  is  going  to  marry  a  poor 


118  A  Foolish  Girl. 

man,  after  all.  Such  grasping  ambition  as  hers  aU 
ways  ends  in  this  way.  She  tried  to  catch  Major 
Roberts,  you  know,  and  did  n't  succeed,  poor  thing ! 
so  now  she  takes  up  with  that  red-headed  George 
King. 


OUK  ICE  MAN. 


|E  are  sitting  on  the  piazza  of  the  Dit- 
worths'  "  cottage  "  at  Newport.  It  is  the 
summer  of  1873,  or  rather  the  begin- 
ning of  autumn,  for  it  is  just  turned  September. 
We  are  six  in  number:  Mrs.  Dit worth,  her  son 
Tenicke,  Colonel  Chadwick,  my  mother,  and  her 
two  daughters,  Rachel  and  Letitia.  It  is  in  the 
morning,  just  after  breakfast,  and  we  are  sitting 
dawdling,  digesting  our  breakfast  and  yesterday's 
news  dribbled  out  to  us  by  the  Colonel  and  Ten- 
icke ;  for,  as  is  the  custom  in  households  with  mas- 
culine members,  the  men  of  the  party  have  at  once 
appropriated  the  newspapers. 

I  am  listening  vaguely  to  Tenicke's  voice  running 
along  in  a  jerky  account  of  some  races  somewhere, 
in  which  I  have  n't  the  faintest  interest,  and  catch- 
ing Colonel  Chadwick's  exclamations  of  "  By  Jove  ! " 
and  "  What  a  set  of  fools  now  !  "  and  "  I  knew  the 
mare  would  win  ! "  and  I  am  thinking  vaguely 


120  Our  Ice  Man. 

that  it  must  be  nearly  time  to  drive  to  the  beach, 
when  Letitia  breaks  in,  saying  in  one  of  her  rap- 
turous tones,  '*  What  a  handsome  fellow  !  "  Letitia 
is  always  breaking  into  little  fervors  of  feeling  or 
imitations  of  feeling  over  somebody,  always  pick- 
ing out  charms  unseen  by  other  eyes ;  so  I  am  not 
interested  or  moved  by  this  exclamation.  But  the 
gentlemen  of  our  party  are  not  so  stolid  as  I  am. 
Letitia  is  n't  their  sister,  and  what  she  thinks  of 
one  of  their  sex  is  by  no  means  an  uninteresting 
matter  to  them.  Tenicke  stops  his  jerky  reading 
and  throws  up  his  chin  in  that  near-sighted  way  of 
his,  and  Colonel  Chadwick  wheels  entirely  about  to 
follow  the  direction  of  Letitia's  dark  eyes ;  but 
both  he  and  Tenicke  fail  to  perceive  the  object  of 
Letty's  admiration.  I  laugh  silently  behind  my 
fan,  for  I  know  the  bent  of  my  sister's  mind.  I 
know  that  she  makes  great  pretensions  toward 
being  democratic  in  her  tastes,  and  that  she  de- 
lights to  astonish  her  fine  friends  by  breaking  out 
into  what  she  calls  honest  admiration  for  a  coal- 
heaver  or  some  grimy  giant  of  that  ilk ;  and  so, 
while  Tenicke  and  Colonel  Chadwick  are  entirely 
adrift  and  perceive  no  earthly  object  whereupon  to 
waste  that  enthusiastic  exclamation,  I  am  perfectly 
aware  that  the  great  hulking  fellow  who  has  just 
disappeared  up  the  carriage  drive  at  our  right —  in 
short,  our  ice  man — is  the  object  of  Miss  Letty's 


Our  Ice  Man.  121 

present  approval.  "  Blest  if  I  can  see  anybody," 
says  Tenicke  after  a  moment. 

"  Must  have  been  a  hero  of  your  dreams,"  says 
the  Colonel,  laughing  feebly. 

"  Hush,  here  he  comes  again  ;  "  and  Miss  Letty 
nods  her  beautifully  gotten-up  head  to  the  right. 
"  Oh,  that  fellah  ! "  and  Tenicke  looks  relieved. 
"  Yes,  very  good-looking,  —  put  together  well. 
Looks  as  if  he  'd  pull  a  good  oar  if  he  knew  how." 

Chadwick  yawns  and  says  nothing.  This  "  fel- 
lah "  is  out  of  the  pale  of  his  masculine  jealousy, 
for  Colonel  Chadwick  is  put  together  well,  and 
knows  how  to  pull  a  good  oar,  and  is  something 
else  besides  —  a  great  deal  else,  he  thinks.  So  it 
happens  that  Letty's  little  remark  falls  flat  and 
the  races  start  up  again.  But  we  are  not  to  be 
rid  of  Letty's  ice  man  quite  so  easily.  Presently 
there  he  is  again,  arid,  as  if  our  talk  had  mesme- 
rized him,  his  face  is  turned  fully  toward  us  with  a 
look  of  curiosity  in  his  gaze,  which  Letty  at  once 
translates  into  a  look  of  admiration  for  herself. 
Then  a  sudden  second  thought  assails  her,  and  with 
that  innocent  air  of  hers,  as  if  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten her  first  exclamation  of  admiration,  she  says  : 
"  How  like  he  is  to  you,  Mr.  Ditworth  —  how  very 
like  !  "  Then  immediately  she  recollects,  and  calls 
up  with  that  surprising  will-power,  one  of  those 
small  blushes,  and  a  pretty  little  air  of  confusion. 


122  Our  Ice  Man. 

Tenicke  smiles  broadly,  not  displeased,  and  says, 
"  Thanks,  Miss  Letty."  Whereat  I  laugh,  a  dis- 
cordant, disagreeable  laugh,  I  am  perfectly  well 
aware,  for  nothing  sets  my  teeth  on  edge  like  these 
little  minauderies  of  Letty's,  and  Tenicke's  pleased 
acceptance  of  them.  Letty  flings  herself  at  his 
head,  as  she  flings  herself  at  every  man's  head ; 
and  he  likes  it,  as  they  all  like  it.  At  my  laugh  he 
turns  quickly  and  flushes.  Then  with  a  half  smile, 
'•  You  don't  agree  with  your  sister,  Miss  Rachel  ?  " 

"I  —  what  about,  Mr.  Ditworth  ?  "  I  make  an- 
swer with  malicious  assumed  oblivion.  He  knows 
it  is  assumed,  and  he  flushes  still  deeper. 

"  Now,  Ray,  that  is  so  like  you  —  to  pretend 
not  to  know  of  what  we  were  speaking,  to  pretend 
that  you  did  n't  see  the  most  striking  resemblance 
between  Mr.  Ditworth  and  the  —  the  ice  man  who 
just  passed,"  says  my  sister. 

I  do  not  reply  to  the  first  part  of  this  speech,  but 
I  stoutly  maintain  that  I  saw  no  possible  resem- 
blance to  Mr.  Ditworth  in  the  handsome  fellow 
of  Letty's  sudden  admiration.  But  all  the  time  I 
am  going  flatly  against  the  truth ;  for  even  before 
Letty  had  spoken  I  had  been  struck  with  the  cu- 
riously close  resemblance,  not  merely  of  form  but 
of  feature,  and  something  too  of  expression.  But 
to  feed  Tenicke's  vanity,  to  let  him  think  for  a 
moment  that  I  was  following  in  Letty's  shameless 


Our  Ice  Man.  123 

wake !  Never.  I  would  perjure  myself  fifty  times 
over  before  I  would  hazard  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
that.  In  the  mean  time  Colonel  Chadwick  is  saying, 

"  Not  such  a  bad-looking  fellow  really,  but  what 
a  dog's  life  to  lead." 

"  A  happy  dog,  I  dare  say,"  returns  Tenicke. 

The  Colonel  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  quotes 
"  If  ignorance  is  bliss.  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  need  take  it  for  granted 
that  only  the  idlers  have  any  use  for  brains,"  I  say 
satirically.  "  On  the  contrary,  as  far  as  my  knowl- 
edge of  history  goes,  the  great  men,  the  brainy 
people,  always  come  up  from  the  workers."  Then 
I  quote  freely,  as  far  as  my  memory  will  allow 
me,  the  great  names  that  have  shone  on  the  world 
unaided  by  birth  and  fortune.  Tenicke  smiles 
again,  one  of  those  easy  exasperating  smiles  of  his, 
and  sitting  back  lazily  in  his  chair  he  says  :  — 

"  I  take  nothing  for  granted,  Miss  Rachel,  and  I 
dare  say  this  son  of  the  soil,  to  put  it  sentimentally, 
may  be  carrying  a  volume  of  Homer  in  his  pocket 
while  he  carries  his  icy  burdens ;  or  perhaps  he 
may  be  studying  some  of  the  sciences  in  his  leisure 
moments,  for  I  suppose  he  does  have  leisure  mo- 
ments. Perhaps  he  is  a  great  geologist  or  a  second 
Tyndall  in  embryo  ;  and,  regarding  those  blocks  of 
ice,  he  may  be  studying  new  forms  of  water." 

I  am  in  an  inward  flame,  but  outwardly  I  am  as 


124  Our  Ice  Man. 

icy  as  the  subject  under  discussion,  and  I  manage 
to  hum  in  an  absent  way  a  bar  of  a  Strauss  waltz 
to  show  Mr.  Ditworth  that  his  impertinent  familiar- 
ity in  chaffing  me  is  unheeded. 

It  is  just  here  Letty  says  sweetly,  "  Oh  no,  not 
Homer,  Mr.  Ditworth,  but  vei~y  likely  one  of  Bret 
Harte's  books." 

Mr.  Ditworth  rouses  himself.  "  Miss  Letty, 
don't  you  know  that  it  is  an  established  fact  that 
Bret  Harte  is  only  appreciated  by  the  people  of 
culture  or  with  the  cultivated  instincts,  never  by 
the  class  he  writes  about,  unless  it  may  be  the  John 
Oakhursts?" 

"  But  this  is  a  possible  Tyndall,  you  admit,  Mr. 
Ditworth,  and  consequently  he  may  have  the  in- 
stincts of  culture  and  be  able  to  appreciate  your 
Bret  Harte,"  I  suddenly  say,  forgetting  for  the 
moment  my  role  of  indifference  and  abstraction. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  will  concede  to  the  possible  Tyn- 
dall, Miss  Rachel,  with  a  low  laugh  and  a  quick 
glance  shot  at  me.  And  here  again  down  the  car- 
riage drive  he  passes,  this  possible  Tyndall,  this 
bone  of  our  contention.  As  I  catch  a  full  view  of 
his  face  and  see  the  straight  brows,  the  square  chin, 
and  above  all  the  level  look  of  the  eyes  that  seem 
to  look  into  mine,  I  have  a  sudden  odd  sensation 
that  something  queer  is  going  to  happen,  not  then 
and  there,  but  somewhere  and  some-when,  not  far 
distant. 


Our  Ice  Man.  125 

Tenicke,  who  had  also  been  observing  the  man, 
suddenly  drops  into  seriousness.  "  I  dare  say  that 
fellow  enjoys  himself  better  than  I  do.  He  gets 
good  wages,  lives  simply  and  heartily  —  no  chance 
of  his  being  bored,  no  chance  of  his  making  any 
great  mistakes,  no  great  risks  possible  to  him. 
I  'm  not  sure  but  I  'd  change  places  with  him  if  I 
could." 

"  Oh,  now,  Mr.  Ditworth,  you  know  you 
would  n't !  "  bursts  forth  Letty. 

"  Well,  no,  I  don't  suppose  I  would  ;  but  I  stick 
to  it  a  man  might  do  worse.  I  'm  not  sure  but 
Miss  Rachel  thinks  we  are  all  doing  worse,  such 
fellows  as  Chadwick  and  I,  dawdling  round  here." 

"  I  think  nothing  of  the  kind,  for  I  have  no 
thought  upon  the  matter,"  I  reply  lazily. 

"  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  and  if  we  are  going  to  the 
beach  it  is  high  time,"  remarks  Mrs.  Ditworth, 
rousing  from  a  close  conference  with  my  mother 
upon  the  iniquities  of  servants  and  other  domestic 
topics.  I  have  no  idea  that  either  of  them  has 
heard  a  word  of  the  conversation  just  narrated  ; 
but  I  am  no  sooner  in  my  room  than  my  mother's 
very  sweet  voice  says,  at  my  elbow  :  — 

"  Rachel,  I  can't  think  why  you  are  so  rude  to 
Mr.  Ditworth." 

"  Rude  ?  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,  mother  ; 
and  I  'm  sure  if  you  could  see  Mr.  Ditworth  as  I 


126  Our  Ice  Man. 

do,  if  you  could  understand  all  his  superciliousness, 
his  idle  affectations  "  — 

"  Rachel,  you  are  usually  clear-sighted,  but  I 
think  you  are  strangely  blinded  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Ditworth.  I  have  watched  him  very  closely,  but  I 
see  nothing,  nothing  at  all  of  what  you  say :  on  the 
contrary,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  very  tolerant  and 
kind  to  you,  Rachel,  who  are  anything  but  kind  to 
him." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  he  does  n't  suffer  for  kindness. 
Letty  fully  makes  up  to  him  for  anybody's  cruelty," 
I  retort  rather  flippantly,  glad  to  find  firm  standing 
ground.  But  my  mother  does  n't  seem  to  think  it 
firm  standing  ground. 

"  Letty  is  polite  to  every  one,"  she  says,  with  a 
slight  frown. 

I  am  exasperated,  and  unwisely,  undutifully,  per- 
haps, burst  out,  "  Mother,  you  must  see  that  Letty 
flings  herself  at  his  head." 

"  Rachel,  how  can  you  use  such  slang  ?  How 
can  you  accuse  your  sister  of  such  things  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  true,"  I  say  doggedly,  "  and  Let- 
ty in  her  heart  knows  that  it  is  true,  and  Tenicke 
knows  that  it  is  true  ;  and  it  makes  me  hate  him, 
the  cool,  easy  way  in  which  he  takes  it  —  and  likes 
it." 

"  Rachel  "  —  there  is  a  note  in  my  mother's 
voice  that  brings  me  up  sharply  —  "  Rachel,  if  this 


Our  Ice  Man.  127 

is  all  true,  I  don't  see  why  you  have  such  special 
feeling  about  it.  Letty,  it  may  be,  is  unduly  fond 
of  admiration,  and  strives  to  please ;  but  it  is  her 
way  with  every  one,  and  —  I  never  saw  you  so  bit- 
ter about  it  before,  Rachel." 

I  am  in  a  flame,  and  I  answer  hotly,  "I  hate  to 
see  her  make  such  a  fool  of  Tenicke  Ditworth  — 
that 's  all.  He  's  vain  and  idle  and  blase  enough, 
heaven  knows,  but  he  was  Jack's  friend,  and  I  hate 
to  see  him  made  such  a  fool  of." 

"  Letty  is  n't  making  such  a  fool,  as  you  call  it, 
of  Mr.  Ditworth.  I  think  he  understands  her  bet- 
ter than  you  do,  Rachel  ;  and  if  he  likes  one  of 
my  daughters  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  quarrel  with 
him  for  it.  But  —  there  is  the  carriage ;  don't 
keep  them  waiting,  my  dear." 

I  turn  to  the  window.  My  cheeks,  which  were 
flaming  a  moment  ago,  feel  stone  cold.  All  my 
hot  anger  has  gone  out  and  left  me.  I  hear  my 
mother's  steps  going  slowly  down  the  stairs.  I 
hear  her  saying  presently,  "  Rachel  will  be  here  in 
a  moment."  But  I  am  hearing  at  the  same  time 
her  significant  words,  "  If  he  likes  one  of  my 
daughters  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  quarrel  with 
him."  Am  I  quarreling  with  him  because  he 
likes  Letty  ?  This  is  what  my  mother  thinks.  I 
forget  for  a  few  seconds  the  carriage  that  is  wait- 
ing, forget  everything  in  recalling  all  my  mother's 


128  Our  Ice  Man. 

words,  all  my  mother's  meaning ;  and  as  I  recall, 
every  one  of  them  pierces  me  like  so  many  arrows  ; 
and  how  cheap  and  mean  and  pitiful  all  my  life 
seems,  and  how  the  color  and  brightness  goes  out 
of  everything  ;  it  is  then  I  suddenly  hear,  "  What 
in  the  world  keeps  Rachel  so  long  ?  "  in  L/etty's 
clear  tones.  I  arouse  myself,  and  looking  down 
I  see  Tenicke  sitting  in  the  high  beach  wagon, 
and  I  meet  his  eyes,  and  know  that  he  has  been 
silently  observant  of  me  all  this  while.  I  turn 
swiftly  and  run  down  the  stairs,  and  in  another 
moment  am  seated  beside  Colonel  Chadwick  on 
the  back  seat,  and  we  are  whirling  along  the  ave- 
nue. 

"  What  did  keep  you  so  long,  Ray  ?  "  asks  Letty. 
She  is  in  the  front  with  Tenicke,  looking  round  at 
me  curiously  and  noting  my  pale  cheeks  and  my 
lacklustre  eyes. 

"  I  could  n't  find  my  hat,"  I  lie  boldly  and  briefly ; 
and  then  all  at  once  Tenicke  asks  Letty  a  question, 
and  she  forgets  my  existence.  We  drive  on  through 
the  long  English-looking  lanes,  sweet  with  fresh- 
mown  lawns  and  the  standing  clover  in  the  upland 
fields,  and  cool  with  the  coolness  that  the  close  un- 
seen sea  brings.  I  hear  as  we  go  the  chirr  of  the 
grasshopper,  the  whistling,  calling,  cooing  notes  of 
the  robins,  and  the  swiff,  swiff  of  the  lawn  mowers, 
all  blended  together  in  a  sweet  summer  sound,  which 


Our  Ice  Man.  129 

will  not  shut  out  the  sound  of  my  mother's  words, 
and  Letty's  careless  chatter  and  light,  happy,  con- 
scious laugh. 

The  tide  is  very  high  that  day,  for  there  has 
been  a  storm,  and  Letty,  who  has  always  a  horror 
of  the  sea,  hears  some  one  say  that  the  undertow 
is  dangerous,  and  straightway  falls  into  a  little 
panic  of  terror. 

"  I  cannot  go  in  to-day.  I  know  I  should  bring 
on  one  of  my  palpitations,"  she  says  in  answer  to 
Colonel  Chadwick's  remark  that  there  is  no  possible 
danger. 

Tenicke  does  not  urge  her ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
says  with  a  queer  shyness,  '"  Don't  urge  her,  Chad- 
wick.  Let  her  do  as  she  chooses."  Then  to  Letty, 
with  a  little  eager  hesitation  new  to  him,  and  as 
if  he  were  speaking  to  a  child,  "  I  would  n't  have 
you  go  in,  Letty,  if  you  feel  like  that :  I  'm  sure  it 
would  harm  you." 

A  flattered  look  in  Letty's  eyes,  a  soft  pink  blush, 
a  real  honest  blush,  on  her  peachy  cheek,  at  this  ; 
and  I  turn  away  with  my  mother's  words  ringing 
through  my  brain.  When  I  emerge  from  the  bath- 
house I  see  only  Teuicke  at  my  door.  Colonel 
Chadwick  is  chatting  in  the  beach  wagon  with 
Letty. 

*'  I  'm  afraid  of  the  undertow,"  he  says,  throwing 
a  laughing  look  at  us,  a  look  that  seems  to  embar- 


130  Our  Ice  Man. 

rass  Tenicke,  but  which  only  calls  out  another  fine 
little  blush  on  Letty's  cheek.  All  is  fish  that  comes 
to  Letty's  net,  and  she  never  ceases  to  feel  trium- 
phant at  any  indications  of  a  nibble. 

So  it  happens  that  I  go  in  alone  that  day  with 
Tenicke  Ditworth.  I  can  see  everything  as  I  saw 
it  then.  The  brilliance  of  the  sky,  the  wonderful 
clear  atmosphere  that  showed  far  off  to  us  an  ocean 
steamer  on  the  blue  horizon  line,  and  the  great  vexed 
waves  that  still  remembered  yesterday's  rage  and 
wrath.  The  water,  with  all  the  warm  sun,  is  chilly, 
and  I  shiver  as  it  breaks  over  me. 

"  You  are  cold,"  says  Tenicke.  "  Perhaps  you 
had  better  not  stay." 

"  It  will  be  over  in  a  moment,  this  first  little 
chill,"  I  return.  As  we  breast  the  great  waves 
and  beat  back  the  strong  tide  my  words  are  veri- 
fied. The  chill  goes,  and  the  keen  sense  of  exhil- 
aration comes  back  to  me.  But  the  undertow  that 
Letty  was  afraid  of  is  a  reality  of  which  we  have 
need  to  be  careful,  if  we  do  not  fear  it.  I  turn  for 
an  instant  to  look  at  the  steamer  far  out  at  sea,  and 
the  next  instant  have  lost  control  of  myself.  It  is 
then  that  Tenicke  flings  his  arm  about  me  and  says, 
"  Give  me  your  other  hand."  His  tone  is  impera- 
tive, but  I  do  not  quarrel  with  it.  The  need  I  very 
well  know  is  imperative ;  and  if  it  were  less,  if  it 
were  not  at  all,  I  did  not  care  then.  I  had  forgot- 


Our  Ice  Man.  131 

ten  my  mother's  words  ;  I  had  forgotten  his  parting 
glance  at  Letty,  his  solicitous  words  to  her,  and 
what  all  these  had  meant  to  me.  I  forgot  every- 
thing but  just  the  moment  —  a  wild,  blind,  intox- 
icating moment,  in  which  I  was  alone  out  of  the 
whole  world  with  Jack's  friend  —  Jack's  friend  : 
not  the  idle,  blase,  supercilious  gentleman  I  had 
sneered  at  for  three  weeks  and  more,  had  flung  all 
my  small  shot  of  sarcasm  at  with  a  fierceness  that 
had  aroused  my  astute  mother's  suspicion  and  cov- 
ered me  with  shame  an  hour  before — Jack's  friend; 
only  Jack's  friend,  I  lied  to  myself  even  then :  even 
then,  with  his  arm  about  me,  with  my  heart  beating 
wildly  against  his  —  even  then  and  after  as  we 
floated  out  together,  my  hand  still  unrelinquished, 
and  myself  caught  now  and  again  in  that  swift  em- 
brace as  the  tide  beat  upward  in  its  reverse  current, 
threatening  overthrow  and  danger  !  Oh,  how  the 
beautiful  day  shone  fairer  than  any  day  since  Jack 
had  died  out  of  my  days  !  How  the  rain-washed 
heaven  smiled  with  new  cheer,  and  the  sun  warmed 
me  through  and  through  with  its  friendly  beams  ! 
As  we  go  out,  just  up  from  the  surf  line  we  meet 
the  beach  wagon,  and  there  is  Letty  smiling  at  us, 
or  at  Tenicke.  who  does  not  see  her. 

"  Were  n't  you  frozen  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  At  first,  yes,"  I  answer  lightly. 

"  But  you  feel  no  chill  now  ? "  asks  Tenicke, 
looking  toward  me. 


132  Our  Ice  Man. 

I  know  my  eyes  are  shining,  my  cheeks  aglow. 

"  The  sun  was  so  warm,"  I  answer  irrelevantly. 

For  a  second  Tenicke  regards  me  steadily,  fixedly. 
Then  I  escape  from  all  their  glances  as  I  turn  and 
labor  up  the  waste  of  sand  in  my  water-logged  gar- 
ments. When  I  emerge  from  the  bath-house,  no 
longer  a  dripping  mermaid,  but  clothed  on  with  the 
nineteenth  century  righteousness  of  fine  raiment, 
I  perceive  that  there  hns  been  a  change  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  morning.  Tenicke  is  waiting  to 
take  his  place  beside  me  on  the  back  seat,  while 
Colonel  Chadwick  drives  with  Letty  on  the  front. 
For  a  moment  I  am  glad  with  the  gladness  that 
came  upon  me  a  half  hour  ago  ;  but  what  is  it  — 
is  it  my  own  sneering,  bitter  spirit  returned  upon 
me,  or  is  it  Letty's  minauderies  —  that  changes  the 
whole  atmosphere,  and  makes  everything  seem  so 
cheap  and  mean  and  trivial  as  we  turn  down  the 
blossomy  road  that  long  ago  I  named  my  English 
lane  ? 

Tenicke,  who  is  beside  me,  is  no  longer  Jack's 
friend.  He  is  the  idle,  blase  man,  with  an  affected 
languor  in  his  voice  and  manner,  and  a  supercilious- 
ness and  condescension  which  I  hate.  And  as  Letty 
tosses  him  her  arch  glances,  and  pouts  her  lips  for 
his  benefit,  he  pays  her  back  with  a  detestable  in- 
terest of  lazy  smiles  and  glances  which  fill  me  with 
a  kind  of  shamed  wonder.  Is  this  the  man,  I  say 


Our  Ice  Man.  133 

to  myself,  at  whose  touch  a  half  hour  ago  I  flamed 
and  thrilled?  As  this  thought,  this  question,  assails 
me  I  flame  anew  with  a  scorching  misery  of  mor- 
tification. Then,  all  at  once,  again  flash  up  my 
mother's  words :  "  If  he  likes  one  of  my  daugh- 
ters"—  And  he  likes  my  sister  Letitia.  This  is 
what  these  glances  and  smiles  signify :  in  love  with 
my  sister  Letitia.  I  look  at  her  fair,  smooth,  com- 
placent face,  that  no  love  will  ever  line  with  an 
anxious  wrinkle,  that  no  care  will  ever  trace  its 
worry  upon,  and  I  remember  the  stinging  emphasis 
of  judgment  which  Jack  —  my  Jack  —  passed  upon 
her  last  year.  He  was  watching  her  at  her  fooleries 
with  two  or  three  young  men  at  a  party  somewhere. 
4k  I  shall  despise  the  man  who  falls  in  love  with 
Letty,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  to  me;  and  when 
I  said,  "  But  girls  must  be  girls,  Jack,  and  you  told 
me  the  other  night  that  /  liked  to  flirt  altogether 
too  well,  sir,"  he  returned,  "And  so  you  do,  Rachel. 
You  're  a  vain  little  coquette ;  but  you  're  not  of 
Letty's  kind.  Letty  's  so  bloodless  ;  she  does  n't 
feel ;  she  has  only  sensations,  and  the  greatest  of 
these  is  vanity." 

As  I  look  at  her  practicing  her  fooleries  upon 
Tenicke,  as  I  turn  and  look  at  Tenicke  himself,  a 
sense  of  loss  comes  over  me.  Must  I  despise  Jack's 
friend?  And  Jack?  If  he  were  here  now  and  saw 
his  friend  and  his  sister  Letitia,  would  he  keep  his 


134  Our  Ice  Man. 

word  ?  would  he  be  able  to  despise  this  man, 
whom  he  had  loved  with  a  love  passing  the  love 
of  woman  ? 

That  night  there  was  a  small  party  at  dinner  — 
twelve  in  all ;  and  as  I  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table 
with  Colonel  Chadwick,  and  looked  across  at  Ten- 
icke,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  him  in  such  a 
brilliant,  careless  mood.  His  dark  eyes  were 
shining,  his  languid  manner  quite  gone  and  in  its 
place  a  gayety  that  was  almost  boyish.  And  once 
or  twice  I  met  his  eyes  between  the  grapes  and  the 
tall  epergne  of  flowers,  and  was  held  in  spite  of  my- 
self by  the  bright  and  winsome  look. 

"  How  handsome  Tenicke  is,"  says  Colonel  Chad- 
wick,  as  we  dawdle  over  the  dessert.  I  do  not  an- 
swer this,  and  the  Colonel  does  n't  seem  to  expect 
an  answer ;  and  he  is  only  following  out  the  train 
of  his  own  thoughts  as  he  goes  on,  "And  such  a 
lucky  fellow  as  he 's  always  been  —  born  with  a 
gold  spoon,  you  know.  I  wonder  "  — 

I  lift  my  eyes  at  the  sudden  pause,  and  then  I 
follow  the  Colonel's  glance,  and  see  Barnet,  the 
waiter,  crossing  the  room  with  a  yellow  envelope  in 
his  hand  —  a  telegram,  and  for  Tenicke.  He  breaks 
off  in  the  sentence  he  is  in  the  middle  of,  and.  with 
the  momentary  surprise  and  expectancy  one  always 
feels  at  a  message  upon  his  face,  tears  open  the 
wrapper.  "  He  has  lost  money  upon  one  of  those 


Our  Ice  Man.  135 

horses,"  I  instantly  think,  as  I  catch  the  sudden  con- 
traction of  his  brows  and  the  compression  of  his  lips. 
But  it  must  be  a  long  message,  I  think,  also,  as  the 
seconds  fly  by,  and  he  keeps  that  fixed  look.  I  do 
not  know  whether  any  one  else  marks  all  this,  nor 
whether  the  time  seems  so  long  to  any  one  else  be- 
fore he  lifts  his  head  and  resumes  his  place  again, 
and  attempts  to  resume  the  old  look  —  attempts.  I 
know  very  well  it  is  only  an  attempt.  Does  any- 
one else  know  it  ?  The  light  stream  of  talk  flows 
on,  we  all  laugh  and  banter  as  we  did  five  minutes 
ago  ;  but  the  real  gayety  has  gone  utterly  out  of 
Tenicke's  face,  and  I  notice  that  he  is  doing  what 
is  unusual  with  him,  drinking  very  freely  of  cham- 
pagne. "  He  must  have  lost  heavily.  What  a 
shame  for  men  to  do  such  things,"  I  sum  up  with 
irrelevant  indignation.  My  indignation  deepens  as 
I  see  the  red  flush  rise  to  his  cheek  and  the  feverish 
glitter  in  his  eyes,  and  as  I  see,  too,  that  his  mother 
is  watching  him  anxiously.  At  the  first  possible 
moment  she  rises  from  the  table,  and  as  we  go 
trooping  into  the  parlor  I  find  myself  beside  my 
host,  and  we  two  the  last  of  the  company,  and  thus 
in  a  measure  alone  together. 

"  Rachel !  " 

I  look  up  at  him  in  amazement.  He  has  never 
addressed  me  in  this  unceremonious  manner,  but 
he  does  not  heed  my  look.  "  Rachel,"  he  repeats, 


136  Our  Ice  Man. 

/ 

"  what  was  the  name  of  Jack's  friend  in  Colorado 
—  that  banking  friend  of  his  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  I  stammer  in  answer. 

"  Does  your  mother  know  ?  could  she  find  out  ?  " 

"  She  might." 

Some  one  speaks  to  him  here,  and  he  moves 
away.  Presently  I  see  him  standing  under  the 
chandelier,  laughing  and  talking  much  as  usual ; 
but  I  fall  to  wondering,  as  I  note  the  deepening 
flush  upon  his  cheek,  if  his  talk  is  as  odd  and  in- 
consequent as  his  words  to  me;  and  as  I  regard 
him  a  swift,  subtle,  external  change  seems  to  have 
come  over  him.  He  looks  all  at  once  dissolute 
and  degenerate.  While  he  stands  there  Barnet 
comes  in  with  the  mail.  There  are  several  let- 
ters and  the  New  York  papers.  Colonel  Chad- 
wick,  as  is  his  custom,  possesses  himself  of  the  pa- 
per, and  runs  his  swift  glance  over  the  telegraphic 
column  without  breaking  his  frothy  talk  with  pret- 
ty Mrs.  Maverick.  But  in  a  moment  he  turns,  for- 
getting all  his  fine  manners,  and  reads  aloud,  in  an 
excited  tone,  that  first  announcement  of  the  Jay 
Cooke  failure  which  so  startled  the  whole  world  at 
the  time. 

There  is  a  various  outcry  from  various  voices, 
notes  of  speculation,  wonder,  and  dismay.  Most  of 
the  auditors  feel  the  shock  evidently,  yet  as  evi- 
dently it  is  a  recoverable  shock.  But  Tenicke  Dit- 


Our  Ice  Man.  137 

worth  !  For  a  few  minutes  I  had  lost  sight  of  him. 
Now  I  turn  to  look  at  him.  In  that  look  I  see  all 
at  once  how  I  have  blundered  for  the  last  twenty 
minutes.  There  is  no  perceptible  change  in  his 
face.  He  sits  idly  drumming  upon  the  table  near 
him,  but  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  this  intelligence 
is  not  so  new  to  him  as  to  us ;  that  not  half  an 
hour  since  he  had  read  the  announcement  privately 
conveyed  in  that  telegram  over  which  he  had  lin- 
gered so  long.  And  he  had  read  with  it  his  own 
ruin.  I  wondered  then,  I  wonder  now,  that  no  one 
seemed  to  see  what  I  did.  Perhaps,  however,  they 
were  wiser  than  I  thought,  and  kept  their  own 
well-bred,  unasking  counsel. 

At  any  rate  the  party  breaks  up  much  earlier 
than  parties  usually  break  up  at  the  Ditworths'. 
When  the  door  closes  upon  the  last  guest  Tenicke 
returns  to  the  little  waiting  group  in  the  parlor, 
arid,  with  no  sign  now  of  excitement,  says  coolly,  — 

"  I  must  catch  the  early  train  to-morrow  morn- 
ing en  route  for  New  York.  This  affair  is  going  to 
tell  hardly  upon  us." 

He  seems  to  address  himself  to  Colonel  Chad- 
wick,  and  the  colonel  answers,  — 

"  Yes  ;  I  thought  so  by  your  silence.  I  had  no 
idea  before  that  you  were  involved  there,  or  I 
should  n't  have  read  "  — 

"  Oh,  that  did  n't  matter.  I  had  the  news  by 
telegram  already." 


138  Our  Ice  Man. 

My  mother  here  rises,  and  we  girls  follow  her  ex- 
ample, and  as  we  say  good-night  I  know  very  well 
that  it  is  good-by ;  but  I  little  think  what  a  long 
time  it  will  be  before  I  see  Jack's  friend  again. 


II. 

"LETTY  may  go  to  the  Cargills',  mother,  and  I 
will  stay  with  you.  I  shall  like  that  much  better." 

"  But  you  need  a  change,  Rachel ;  you  are  not 
very  strong  this  summer." 

"  I  should  n't  get  stronger  at  the  Cargills'.  I 
never  cared  for  the  Cargill  girls ;  they  tire  me. 
But  Letty  gets  on  with  them  admirably." 

My  mother  sighs  and  says  no  more.  She  is  glad 
to  have  me  with  her,  I  know,  but  she  is  so  truly 
unselfish  that  she  will  urge  my  leaving  her  if  she 
thinks  it  is  for  my  good.  By  and  by  Letty  comes 
in,  flushed  and  a  little  cross,  her  hands  full  of  par- 
cels. I  acquaint  her  with  my  determination  to 
stay  at  home  instead  of  accepting  the  Cargills'  in- 
vitation. 

"  Well,  you  can  do  as  you  like,  of  course,  Ray. 
but  I  should  think  you  'd  want  to  go  somewhere, 
and  the  Cargills'  seems  our  only  chance  this  sum- 
mer. If  it  had  n't  been  for  that  horrid,  hateful  fail- 
ure last  year,  we  might  be  at  the  Ditworths'  this 
minute." 


Our  Ice  Man.  139 

"  And  we  might  not"  I  answer  rather  snap- 
pishly. 

Letty  flings  up  her  head.  "  You  might  not.  I 
am  quite  sure  1  should  have  been  there,  and  very 
likely  I  might  have  invited  you  to  pass  the  sum- 
mer with  me,  Miss  Rachel." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Letty,  or  at  least  any  sillier 
than  you  can  help.  If  Tenicke  Ditworth  had  had 
such  an  interest  in  you  as  you  imply,  he  would  n't 
have  let  you  remain  in  such  ignorance  of  him  all 
these  months,"  I  break  out  hotly. 

"  Tenicke  Ditworth  is  a  man  of  sense  and  some 
honor,  I  suppose,  and  of  course  he  is  very  well 
aware  that  it  would  be  in  the  very  highest  degree 
dishonorable  for  a  man  who  is  entirely  without 
means  to  ask  a  girl  to  become  his  wife." 

I  hold  my  peace  now.  I  always  get  the  worst 
of  it  with  Letty;  she  is  so  self-complacent,  so  en- 
tirely convinced  of  her  own  power,  of  her  own 
judgment.  I  hold  my  peace,  but  inwardly  I  am 
in  anything  but  a  peaceful  frame  of  mind.  It  is 
eight,  ten  months  ago  since  I  bade  Tenicke  Dit- 
worth good-by,  and  no  word  from  him  has  come  to 
us  since.  I  know  now  that  Letty  never  had  his 
heart.  I  knew  it  when  he  said  good-by  there  ; 
when  he  held  her  hand  for  the  moment  and  did  not 
see  her.  Equally  as  well  I  know  too  —  I  do  not 
lie  to  myself  any  more — I  know  that  Tenicke  Dit- 


140  Our  Ice  Man. 

worth  is  more,  immeasurably  more,  to  me,  than 
Jack 's  friend.  And  he  ?  I  look  back  to  that  last 
day  when  he  held  me  in  his  arms  while  the  waves 
dashed  over  us,  when  his  kind  voice  questioned  of 
my  safety,  and  later,  in  that  last  good-by,  the 
glance  that  held  me  for  an  instant  as  his  arms  held 
me  a  few  hours  before.  This  is  all  I  have  —  very 
insufficient  food  for  love  to  feed  on  ;  but  I  have 
grown  quite  shameless  in  these  last  ten  months.  I 
may  be  no  more  to  him  than  Jack's  sister,  but  I 
love  him,  love  him,  love  him  !  He  is  to  me  the 
one  man  in  all  the  world  ;  and  if  1  think  now  and 
again  of  the  faults  I  found  in  him,  I  think  with  re- 
morse and  humiliation  of  the  bitter  spirit,  the  de- 
mon of  jealousy,  which  clouded  my  vision  through 
all  that  summer  time. 

And  here  with  the  summer  again  I  am  as  utterly 
separated  from  him  as  if  he  had  gone  into  that  un- 
discovered country  where  I  lost  sight  of  my  dear 
Jack  so  little  while,  and  yet  so  long  ago.  But  yet 
I  am  certain  he  is  not  dead.  I  am  certain  that 
some  day  I  shall  see  him  again,  as  I  saw  him  ten 
months  ago ;  some  day  I  shall  hear  his  voice  and 
feel  the  clasp  of  his  hand.  But  in  the  mean  time, 
during  this  waiting  summer,  I  choose  my  own 
thoughts  for  company,  instead  of  Letty  and  the 
Cargill  girls.  And  Letty  is  quite  content  with  my 
decision.  She  is  not  so  obtuse  but  that  she  feels 


Our  Ice  Man.  141 

now  and  then  my  critical  spirit.  But  one  day,  as 
she  sits  plaiting  a  ruffle  for  her  throat,  —  it  is  the 
day  before  her  departure,  —  she  says  to  me  quite 
suddenly,  as  if  the  idea  had  all  at  once  dawned 
upon  hef,  "  I  think  it  is  very  strange,  Rachel,  that 
we  have  never  heard  from  the  Ditworths  any  way, 
don't  you?" 

u  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  When  Colonel  Chad- 
wick  went  to  Europe,  last  autumn,  we  lost  our  only 
link  between  us  and  the  Ditworths." 

"  But  I  should  have  thought  that  Mrs.  Ditworth 
would  have  written  to  mother." 

"  Mrs.  Ditworth  ?  Why  should  she  ?  After  all, 
our  acquaintance  was  a  very  new  one.  We  had 
only  met  the  summer  before  at  Rye,  and  her  inter- 
est was  through  her  son  Tenicke's  interest "  —  I 
have  an  inward  tremor  as  I  pronounce  this  name, 
like  Tennyson's  "  Fatima  "  —  "  was  through  Ten- 
icke's interest  in  us  for  Jack's  sake." 

"  And  so  you  think  it  was  for  Jack's  sake  en- 
tirely that  we  were  invited  for  that  month  at  New- 
port ?  " 

I  resume  my  book,  disdaining  to  reply  to  this 
vain  question  so  vainly  asked  with  all  Letty's  sim- 
pering complacence.  But  presently  I  hear  a  new 
tone  in  my  sister's  voice. 

"  Rachel,  Rachel,  come  here !  " 

She  is   sitting  by   the  window,  and   I  am  lying 


142  Our  Ice  Man. 

upon  the  lounge  with  a  book  in  my  hand.  I  look 
up  incuriously,  but  still  perceptive  of  her  change  of 
tone. 

"  Rachel,  isn't  this  funny?  Here  is  that  New- 
port ice  man,  who  looked  so  much  like  Tenicke." 

I  do  not  wait  for  another  call ;  in  a  second  I  am 
on  my  feet  and  looking  over  Letty's  shoulder  at  the 
stalwart  figure  just  leaving  the  gate.  Letty  goes 
chattering  on,  but  I  cannot  speak  to  her.  My 
heart  is  beating  up  in  my  throat,  and  I  am  trem- 
bling and  cold  to  my  fingers'  ends.  The  sight  of 
that  tall,  t-inewy  figure,  clad  in  a  blue  flannel  shirt 
and  black  trousers,  suddenly  obliterates  all  these 
ten  long  months,  and  I  am  sitting  on  a  wide  piazza, 
listening  to  the  "  swiff,  swiff"  of  the  lawn  mowers 
and  an  occasional  news  item  read  in  a  fluent  voice 
at  my  elbow,  or  I  am  — 

"  He  is  n't  so  like  as  I  thought,"  says  Letty, 
presently.  I  look  with  a  last  scrutiny  as  the  man 
mounts  the  wagon,  and  I  am  constrained  to  admit 
that  Letty  is  right.  I  am  looking  at  a  man  of  more 
muscular  build  than  Tenicke  Ditworth,  with  a  face 
of  red  bronze  entirely  wanting  in  that  fine  Vandyke 
outline  and  brown  silk  beard  of  which  I  used  to 
think  that  Jack's  friend  was  so  vain.  But  in  spite 
of  these  differences,  all  the  rest  of  the  day  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  haunted.  I  go  about  the  house  with 
Tenicke's  low  voice  in  my  ears,  and  with  a  close 


Our  Ice  Man.  143 

crowding  memory  of  glance  and  touch  and  presence 
that  at  last  gives  me  the  only  dream  of  him  in  my 
sleep  that  I  have  had  since  I  parted  from  him. 

The  next  dav  Letty  goes,  and  I  am  alone  with 
my  mother  and  our  one  small  servant ;  for,  as  Let- 
ty has  said,  the  great  panic  has  not  passed  us  by, 
and  we  are  by  no  means  as  comfortable  in  our  cir- 
cumstances as  last  year  at  this  time.  Letty  goes, 
and  I  am  left  to  my  dreams  undisturbed ;  and  they 
don't  "  dim  their  fine  gold  "  as  the  days  go  on. 
Vivid  and  clear  they  crowd  upon  me,  until  I  am 
driven  into  a  kind  of  desperation  of  desire  that  I 
must  make  them  reality.  I  think  with  a  shudder 
that  it  was  just  this  wild  trouble  of  fancied  reality 
that  haunted  me  when  Jack  died.  Was  Tenicke 
Ditworth  dead  ?  But  I  knew  myself  the  most 
unreasonable,  the  most  besotted  of  mortal  women 
when  I  asked  this  question  of  myself ;  for  I  am 
perfectly  well  aware  that  the  daily  contemplation 
of  what  Letty  was  pleased  to  call  Tenicke's  double 
is  really  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  vivid  fancies  — 
the  material  upon  which  my  hungry  heart  and  im- 
patient nature  has  been  building  up  these  airy 
structures.  Day  after  day  I  place  myself  at  the 
window  and  peer  at  the  red  bronze  face  which  is 
like,  yet  so  unlike  Tenicke  Ditworth's.  And  every 
day  I  am  startled  by  the  strange  likeness  in  unlike- 
ness.  Every  day  my  pulses  get  some  new  impetus 


144  Our  Ice  Man. 

from  some  new  suggestion,  some  trick  of  movement 
or  glance.  My  mother  sits  reading  a  letter  from 
Letty  one  morning.  "  What  is  this,"  she  suddenly 
asks,  "  about  Mr.  Ditworth  ?  '  Does  Tenicke's 
Double  still  bring  you  ice  ?  '  " 

I  hasten  to  explain  Letty's  fancied  resemblance. 
I  say  nothing  of  my  own  fancy  about  it.  And 
presently,  as  the  gate  clangs,  my  mother  goes  to 
the  window  to  satisfy  herself  of  this  resemblance. 
After  a  moment's  observation  she  turns  away  in- 
differently with  but  one  remark  :  — 

"  Letty  has  very  odd  ideas  of  likeness." 

u  And  you  don't  think  there  is  any  likeness  ?  "  I 
ask  amazed. 

"  To  Mr.  Ditworth  ?  Not  the  slightest ;  not 
more  than  there  would  be  between  any  two  men 
of  rather  exceptionally  fine  physique  and  of  that 
dark  type.  This  man  is  larger,  but  not  so  tall  as 
Mr.  Ditworth,  and  with  a  heavier  and  coarser 
build." 

Is  all  this  resemblance  after  all  half  imagination? 
As  I  ask  myself  this  question  I  watch  this  man  of 
coarser  and  heavier  build  mount  to  the  wagon  seat 
and  drive  off  down  the  street.  At  that  moment 
certainly  I  could  see  with  my  mother's  eyes,  and  I 
could  find  no  likeness  to  Tenicke  Ditworth. 

It  is  at  the  latter  part  of  this  very  day  that  my 
mother,  regarding  me  earnestly  and  a  little  anxiously 
a  moment,  says  :  — 


Our  Ice  Man.  145 

"  Rachel,  you  are  growing  thin  with  this  confine- 
ment to  the  city.  I  think  I  did  wrong  in  not  in- 
sisting upon  your  going  with  Letty." 

"  Mother,  I  could  not  stand  the  Cargill  girls  and 
Letty  in  a  lump.  That  would  make  a  skeleton  of 
me  in  a  week,"  I  answer  with  vehement  emphasis. 

"  What  unreasoning  prejudices  you  do  have, 
Rachel." 

"  I  suppose  all  prejudices  are  unreasoning.  It 
isn't  a  matter  of  reason,  but  of  instinct  and  unlike- 
ness.  We  are  not  of  the  same  kind.  Mother " 
—  I  am  sore  and  irritable,  or  I  should  never  have 
said  this  —  "  Jack  felt  just  as  I  did  about  Letty, 
always." 

A  flush  crosses  my  mother's  face.  She  remem- 
bers all  Jack's  little  trials  with  pretty,  foolish  Letty, 
remembers  them  with  pain,  as  mothers  must  the 
natural  antagonisms  of  their  children.  But  she 
says  no  more  of  my  going  to  the  Cargills',  and  I 
think  she  has  forgotten  my  thin  face  until  she 
hands  me  an  invitation  to  spend  a  week  with  an 
old  friend  of  hers  two  or  three  miles  from  the  city. 
I  did  not  care  specially  to  go,  but  when  I  find  my- 
self in  the  sweet  country  air  once  more,  and  scent 
the  mown  fields,  and  see  the  "  far  blue  hills,"  I  be- 
gin to  relent  of  my  apathy  and  feel  that  it  is  good 
to  be  alive  and  young.  And  when  I  find  on  the 
second  day  that  there  is  to  be  "  a  garden  party  " 


146  Our  Ice  Man. 

in  the  great  old-fashioned  pretty  garden  which 
seems  to  lie  all  about  the  house,  I  am  more  inter- 
ested in  my  fineries  than  I  have  been  for  months; 
and  when  I  find  at  this  party  a  rather  handsome 
young  man,  who  is  of  much  consequence  apparently 
to  all  the  young  women  present,  but  who  turns  from 
their  charms  and  persists  in  becoming  my  attendant 
cavalier,  I  am  very  far  from  displeased  thereat,  arid 
am  quite  easily  persuaded  to  drop  'k  that  everlasting 
croquet  mallet  "  and  go  on  a  tour  of  investigation 
down  the  queer,  quaint  ways  of  the  winding  foot- 
paths. That  night  when  I  stand  crimping  my  hair 
before  the  mirror  I  look  at  my  brightened  face,  and 
recall  Jack's  judgment  of  me —  "a  vain  little  flirt." 
As  the  days  go  by  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  this 
judgment ;  for  my  fine  garden  cavalier,  who  turns 
out  to  be  a  near  neighbor,  makes  himself  my  sole 
protector  in  sundry  explorations  over  "the  far  blue 
hills." 

At  the  end  of  the  week  my  mother  comes  for 
me,  as  she  had  planned. 

uAh,  I  knew  you  needed  a  change,  Rachel,"  she 
says,  in  a  pleased  voice.  "  You  are  looking  quite 
like  yourself  again." 

"  Is  n't  she  ?  "  repeats  my  hostess. 

Then  presently  I  see  the  two  walking  in  the  old 
garden  and  talking  earnestly  together.  When  a  lit- 
tle later  my  new  acquaintance,  Mr.  Richard  Par- 


Our  Ice  Man.  147 

sons,  saunters  up  the  steps,  I  see  my  hostess  tel- 
egraph by  a  glance  to  my  mother,  and  I  guess  at 
once  all  the  mystery  of  that  conference. 

Mr.  Parsons  is  one  of  the  young  men  of  whom 
mothers  are  sure  to  approve.  He  is  well-looking 
and  well-behaved,  a  genial,  kindly  soul,  upon  whom 
the  world  has  showered  good  fortune  befitting  the 
good  qualities.  He  is,  to  sum  it  all  up,  a  safe  man, 
and  it  is  upon  this  safe  man  that  I  am  expected  to 
bestow  myself.  That  this  is  the  subject  matter  of 
the  conference  between  my  mother  and  her  friend 
I  do  not  need  to  be  told. 

Until  now  I  had  never  thought  seriously  of  Mr. 
Parsons's  possible  feeling ;  I  had  been  a  vain  little 
flirt,  but  an  unthinking  one.  But  now  I  recall  his 
looks,  his  tones,  and  a  something  empresse  in  his 
manner,  which  I  had  taken  carelessly  enough  be- 
fore, but  which  return  upon  me  with  a  fuller  mean- 
ing. It  had  been  a  long  summer  day  to  me  —  a 
day  of  transient  pleasure,  wherein  I  had  rested 
a  moment  while  I  waited.  To  Richard  Parsons  it 
had  been  but  the  beginning  of  a  summer  which 
stretched  out  into  an  illimitable  future.  If  I 
guessed  at  all  this  in  that  moment  of  retrospection, 
I  have  amplest  confirmation  in  another  week,  for 
in  that  time  Mr.  Parsons  has  come  to  the  point, 
and  plainly  declared  his  intentions,  undeterred  by 
the  sudden  stiffness  which  my  awakened  conscience 


148  Our  Ice  Man. 

has  infused  at  that  late  day  into  my  manner.  His 
evident  astonishment  at  my  rejection  of  his  suit  is 
sufficiently  humiliating,  without  the  curious  amaze- 
ment of  my  mother's  friend,  and  the  surprised  dis- 
appointment of  my  mother  herself. 

"  You  seemed  to  like  him  so  much,  Rachel." 

"  I  did  like  him,  but  that  is  a  very  different  mat- 
ter from  loving." 

"  It  is  often  much  safer  to  begin  life  with  another 
on  the  liking  you  speak  of  than  what  young  people 
call  love,"  answered  my  mother  with  singular  as- 
perity. 

I  am  dumb  after  this  argument.  Do  all  people, 
I  wonder,  outlive  this  love  which  is  the  burden  of 
every  poet's  song  since  the  world  began  ?  I  re- 
member an  old  story  I  have  heard  about  my  moth- 
er's beauty  in  her  youth  and  the  lovers  that  she 
had.  "  Your  mother  had  the  finest  opportunities 
of  any  of  us,  and  she  married  the  poorest  of  them 
all,"  my  aunt  Catherine  had  often  said  to  me,  with 
a  sharp  frankness  exceedingly  unflattering  to  my 
father.  I  gather  from  this  that  it  was  most  decid- 
edly a  love  match,  and  I  look  at  the  handsome  face 
of  my  paternal  parent  as  it  appears  in  the  crayon 
portrait  above  my  head,  and  hunt  up  all  my  child- 
ish memories  to  recall  his  pleasant  voice  and  win- 
ning ways.  I  suppose  that  he  once  delighted  my 
mother  with  this  pleasant  voice,  and  with  these  win- 


Our  Ice  Man.  149 

ning  ways  ;  I  suppose  that  she  once  thrilled  at  the 
touch  of  his  hand  or  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  like 
any  love-smitten  girl.  But  now,  this  "  light  that  was 
never  on  sea  or  land,"  has  faded  into  worse  than 
nothingness. 

I  think  of  a  voice  whose  every  intonation  I  know 
so  well,  of  eyes  that  I  could  never  meet  even  in  my 
time  of  bitter  cavil  and  jealousy  without  a  quick- 
ened pulsation.  Will  there  come  a  day  when  I 
shall  look  back  with  indifference,  when  I  shall  be 
able  to  meet  the  eyes  and  hear  the  voice  perhaps 
with  dulled  senses?  Now,  with  my  blood  at  fever 
beat,  I  answer  vehemently,  No,  no,  no !  But  how 
can  I  promise  for  myself?  How  can  I  say  that  I 
shall  make  exception  to  the  myriads  who,  like  my 
mother,  "  preach  down  a  daughter's  heart,"  having 
overlived  the  purple  light  of  love  and  youth  ?  But 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  gray  and  empty  fut- 
ure day.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Here 
is  my  youth,  and  with  it  my  love  that  may  never 
come  nearer  to  me  than  now.  But  even  so,  I  know, 
I  know,  that  "  all  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  its 
pains."  As  I  come  to  this  triumphant  conclusion, 
as  I  feel  that  nothing,  nothing  can  ever  dim  my 
"  light  that  was  never  on  sea  or  land,"  I  get  a  letter 
from  my  sister  with  this  piece  of  information  :  — 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  Tom  Cargill  has  come 
home  from  Colorado,  and  he  says  that  his  cousin 


150  Our  Ice  Man. 

Harry,  saw  Tenicke  Ditworth  about  twenty  miles 
from  Denver,  and  that  he  has  married  a  rich  widow, 
and  is  coming  East  shortly  to  buy  back  the  Newport 
estate." 

All  in  a  moment,  "  down  go  tower  and  temple." 
Shame  and  humiliation  assail  me.  I  have  been 
living  in  an  ideal  world,  and  bowing  down,  like 
many  another  foolish  woman,  before  an  ideal  hero. 
Poor  and  unfortunate,  struggling  with  adverse  fate, 
I  had  seen  my  hero,  and  in  that  condition  had  glo- 
rified him,  had  felt  that  I  had  a  right  in  him.  But 
what  had  I  to  do  with  a  man  who  had  smartly  re- 
trieved his  fortunes  by  marrying  a  rich  widow  ? 

"  What  does  Letty  say  ?  "  asks  my  mother,  com- 
ing into  the  room  when  I  had  arrived  at  this  point. 
I  hand  the  letter  to  her.  She  skims  it  through, 
but  makes  no  comment.  But  as  she  returns  it  to 
me  I  ask  suddenly,  — 

"  Mother,  did  Mr.  Ditworth  ask  you  about  Jack's 
friend  in  Colorado  before  he  went  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  asked  me  after  dinner  that  day  the 
news  arrived  in  Newport  of  the  Jay  Cooke  failure. 
It  was  Jacob  Vanstart,  you  know.  I  gave  him  his 
name.  That  was  sufficient,  for  Mr.  Vanstart  was 
the  richest  man  in  Colorado.  I  presume  Mr.  Dit- 
worth wanted  hifl  influence  in  entering  into  some 
business  ;  and  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  he  had 
married  Mr.  Vanstart's  widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Baum." 


Our  Ice  Man.  151 

So  this  was  the  end  of  my  dreams  !  Married  to 
Mrs.  Baum  ! 

u  Mother,  do  you  suppose  Tenicke  Ditworth  had 
this  —  this  Mrs.  Baum  in  his  mind  —  I  mean  was 
that  his  business,  to  go  out  there  and  look  up  Mr. 
Vanstart's  rich  widowed  sister?"  I  am  reckless 
just  now  how  I  trample  on  and  deface  the  clay  im- 
age I  have  been  worshiping. 

"  What  a  foolish  question,  Rachel,"  my  mother 
replies  to  this.  "  It  is  n't  at  all  likely  that  Mr. 
Ditworth  knew  anything  of  Mr.  Vanstart's  sister ; 
or,  if  he  did,  that  he  would  project  such  an  under- 
taking in  a  moment." 

I  laugh  feebly,  and  then  all  at  once  the  room 
becomes  intolerable  to  me.  Everything  seems 
dwarfed  and  pinched,  narrow  and  mean.  I  go  out 
upon  the  little  side  stoop  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
As  I  stand  there  pulling  down  some  half-starved 
honeysuckle  blossoms,  the  gate  creaks  on  its  rusty 
hinge,  and  I  look  up  to  see  Tenicke  Ditworth's 
Double  ! 

The  honeysuckle  springs  back  from  my  hand, 
and  my  heart  beats  up  in  my  throat  again,  as  the 
strange  resemblance  strikes  me  anew.  How  like, 
oh,  how  like  he  is!  For  an  instant,  just  an  in- 
stant, I  forget  Letty's  news,  forget  everything  but 
the  face  that  is  recalled  to  me.  Then,  swift  and 
sharp,  everything  returns  upon  me,  and  I  am  try- 


152  Our  Ice  Man. 

ing  to  reconcile  this  face,  the  sweet,  kind  eyes  Jack 
used  to  talk  about,  with  Mrs.  Baum's  husband. 

Well,  the  days  go  by ;  time  gets  on  in  a  slow, 
sluggish  fashion  with  me ;  I  eat  and  drink,  laugh 
and  talk  with  my  mother  and  the  few  guests  we 
have,  much  as  usual ;  but  something  has  gone  out 
of  the  days,  and  life  seems  disjointed  and  savorless. 
When  I  sit  down  to  think  now,  there  is  no  region 
of  memory  where  I  can  rest  apart  from  Jack  and 
Jack's  friend.  Ever  since  I  have  had  a  young  girl's 
thoughts,  they  have  been  interwoven  with  Jack  and 
this  friend  of  his.  And  now  —  well,  I  try  hard, 
all  through  the  dull  afternoons  and  the  duller  even- 
ings, to  interest  myself  in  the  neighborly  talk  that 
comes  in  my  way.  But  in  the  mornings,  with  a 
fool's  insensate  folly —  in  the  mornings  I  render  my 
afternoon  and  evening  task  as  difficult  as  possible 
by  the  observation  I  take  at  the  side  window  of  a 
certain  stalwart  figure  whose  every  motion  recalls 
with  painful  distinctness  the  man  1  am  trying  to 
put  out  of  my  mind  and  hearth  fti  this  consistent 
occupation  all  the  little  summer  bloom  I  had  gained 
fades,  and  my  thin  cheeks  grow  thinner  yet,  until 
there  are  ugly  hollows  under  the  cheek-bones,  and 
small  wrinkled  ripples  beneath  my  eyes.  But 
when  did  happy  or  unhappy  lovers  ever  conduct 
themselves  consistently  ?  Do  I  call  myself  a  lover 
still,  with  my  hero  a  hero  no  longer?  I  do  not  call 


Our  Ice  Man.  153 

myself  anything.  I  only  feel  that  the  past  and  I 
cannot  separate  without  long  throes  of  pain  which 
I  cannot  measure.  I  only  know  that  when  I  try  to 
wrench  myself  away  from  my  memories  I  am.  like 
Milne's  lover,  in  worse  than  an  empty  world. 

So  the  dreary,  dusty  days  go  on  from  bad  to 
worse.  When  I  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  now,  I 
see  a  face  unknown  before  ;  pale,  and  growing  every 
morning  paler  still,  and  at  night  a  hot  red  color 
burning  in  two  hard  outlined  spots  upon  my  cheeks. 
I  have  read  all  my  life  sentimental  stories  of 
young  women  pining  away  for  love,  and  I  suppose 
I  thought  it  was  a  very  pretty  thing  to  do.  But  if 
this  is  what  I  am  doing,  it  is  anything  but  a  pretty 
piece  of  business.  I  am  not  dying,  nor  on  the  road 
to  it.  I  am  simply  growing  unhealthy  and  ugly  as 
fast  as  possible.  Womanlike,  a  feeling  of  resent- 
ment kindles  within  me  at  this  contingency.  To 
lose  love  and  happiness  and  one's  good  looks  all 
together  is  a  threefold  tragedy.  So  with  jeering 
bitterness  I  appeal  to  myself  against  myself,  as  I 
sit  late  on  Saturday  afternoon  beneath  the  dried-up 
honeysuckle  on  the  little  side  porch,  where,  when 
the  wind  comes  from  the  south,  a  small  puff  will 
now  and  then  find  its  way  over  our  high  board 
fence.  Everybody  has  gone  away  for  the  evening, 
and  I  am  left  alone  to  keep  house  and  nurse  my 
foolish  fancies.  "  Creak,  creak,"  the  cart  wheels 


154  Our  Ice  Man. 

lazily  roll  over  the  pavement  outside,  and  now  and 
then  the  swift,  smart  rattle  of  a  smart  carriage,  and 
two  or  three  organ-grinders  belaboring  their  wheezy 
old  instruments,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  produce  mel- 
ody. I  am  listening  to  all  this  with  a  dull  ear  and 
humming  mechanically  the  "  Blue  Danube  "  waltz 
in  broken  time  with  the  nearest  organ,  when  the 
gate  swings  open. 

"  No,  no,"  I  call  out.  "  Don't  come  any  nearer." 
Then  I  stop  in  dismay.  It  is  not  the  grimacing 
young  scamp  of  an  organ-grinder  I  expected,  but  a 
tall,  well-known  figure  in  a  navy-blue  shirt.  I  for- 
get to  explain  my  words  in  my  surprise  at  this  ap- 
pearance at  this  hour.  But  as  the  tall  figure  sways 
past  me,  heavily  laden  with  an  extra  amount  of  ice, 
I  remember  that  it  is  Saturday  night ;  that  the  day 
has  been  unusually  warm,  and  so  the  belated  time. 
I  feel  a  little  quiver  of  excitement  as  I  make  up  my 
mind  in  the  next  moment  to  speak  with  this  curious 
Double  as  he  comes  back.  For  I  must  explain  my 
sharp  exclamation  ;  one  must  be  decent  even  to  an 
ice  man.  Presently  I  hear  his  step  crunching  the 
gravel,  and  I  meet  him  face  to  face  as  he  turns  the 
corner  of  the  lattice.  "  I  thought  it  was  an  organ- 
grinder  when  I  spoke  as  you  opened  the  gate,"  I 
began.  Then  I  look  up,  standing  quite  near  as  I 
am,  and  I  see,  in  the  deep  amber  sunset  light  —  I 
see  a  smile  slowly,  then  swiftly,  breaking  out  of 


Our  Ice  Man.  155 

eyes  and  lips,  a  smile  that  can  only,  only  belong  — 
"  Oh,  Tenicke  !  Tenicke  !  "  In  a  moment  more  I 
wonder  for  just  a  dizzy  second  or  two  if  I  am  gone 
clean  mad,  for  I  am  clinging  fast  to  the  blue-shirted 
arm  and  laughing  and  crying  in  a  breath,  "  Oh, 
Tenicke  !  Tenicke  !  "  Just  a  dizzy  second  or  two, 
then  I  drag  him  in  through  the  doorway,  through 
the  little  side  hall,  into  the  cool  empty  parlor.  The 
sunset  light  streams  in  through  the  half-open  shut- 
ter, and  falls  iri  one  clear  strong  ray  across  the  face, 
not  of  any  stranger,  of  any  vexatious  Double,  but 
the  face  —  yes,  the  face  of  Tenicke  Ditworth  him- 
self. 

"  To  think  you  did  n't  know  me  before,  Rachel. 
I  should  make  my  fortune  as  an  actor,  should  n't 
I?"  He  smiles  down  at  me,  but  there  are  tears  in 
his  eyes,  in  his  voice  ;  and  at  the  sight,  at  the  sound, 
I  forget  all  about  that  foolish  story  of  Mrs.  Baum, 
all  my  proper  decencies  and  proprieties  are  scat- 
tered to  the  winds,  and  I  cast  myself  upon  Tenicke 
Ditworth's  breast,  and  out  of  my  suddenly  relieved 
heart,  heedless  of  everything  but  the  present,  I 
make  love,  fond,  desperate,  shameless  love,  to  our 
ice  man. 

By  and  by  I  lift  my  head.  The  sunset  glory  has 
gone,  but  the  new-risen  moon  shines  full  in  my 
darling's  face  — my  darling's,  not  Mrs.  Baum's,  nor 
poor,  pretty,  shallow  Letty's,  as  I  had  foolishly 


156  Our  Ice  Man. 

fancied  once,  but  mine,  mine  always  from  the  very 
first,  as  I  knew  now  ;  and  it  is  now  for  the  first  time 
I  ask  a  question,  a  question  that  the  one  great  fact 
of  presence  had  put  aside  for  these  swift  minutes. 

"  How  did  it  all  happen  ?  How  did  it  come  to 
this?" 

"  How  did  it  come  to  this  ?  "  and  he  touched  his 
blue  shirt  with  a  half  laugh.  "  Rachel,  I  don't 
suppose  you  can  have  any  idea  how  quickly  a  for- 
tune can  take  wings.  I  don't  think  /  had  until  I 
found  at  the  end  of  a  few  months  that  I  could  n't 
raise  a  dollar  without  borrowing.  I  tried  in  the 
mean  time  to  find  some  occupation,  but  my  idle, 
desultory  life  had  unfortunately  left  me  at  very 
loose  ends  in  business  adaptability ;  and  besides 
that,  it  was  a  terrible  time ;  all  the  situations  were 
filled,  and  thousands  like  myself  were  out  of  em- 
ployment. I  was  walking  down  Broadway  one 
morning  considering  what  I  should  try  next,  when 
I  met  Jim  Borland,  whose  father  is  the  largest  ice 
dealer  you  have  in  your  city.  In  an  instant  I  re- 
called our  banter  at  Newport,  and  thought  to  my- 
self that  as  I  could  n't  find  an  occupation  to  suit  me, 
I  might  as  well  suit  the  occupation  to  myself.  When 
I  sounded  Jim,  he  supposed  I  was  after  a  clerkship 
in  the  counting-room.  Good  fellow,  he  would  have 
turned  somebody  out  for  me  if  he  could,  but  that 
was  out  of  the  question.  When  I  told  him  it  was 


Our  Ice  Man.  157 

a  carrier's  place  I  proposed  to  take,  you  ought  to 
have  seen  his  face.  I  believe  for  a  moment  he 
thought  I  had  been  drinking,  or  that  my  losses  had 
turned  my  brain.  When  he  found  that  I  was  in 
earnest,  he  tried  to  dissuade  me  from  my  notion,  as 
he  called  it.  Something  would  be  sure  to  turn  up 
in  a  month  or  two,  and  in  the  mean  time  he  would 
be  my  banker.  But  I  was  already  in  debt,  and  I 
knew  better  than  he  how  unlikely  anything  of  the 
kind  that  he  supposed  fitted  for  me  was  likely  to 
turn  up  for  the  waiting.  Well,  that  night  I  left 
New  York  with  him,  and  two  days  after  I  was  in- 
stalled in  my  carrier's  route." 

"  But  how  came  you"  — 

"  To  be  at  your  part  of  the  city,  and  at  your 
door?  I  had  your  address,  Rachel,  and  I  was  such 
a  romantic  fool  that  I  wanted  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
you  now  and  then ;  and  a  little  spirit  of  fun  pos- 
sessed me  too,  the  whole  thing  was  so  absurd.  I 
had  really  no  idea  of  wooing  you,  my  dear  girl,  in 
this  melodramatic  sort  of  disguise.  I  was  n't  pro- 
posing to  play  theatre.  But  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  'd 
know  me,  and  it  took  you  all  summer  "  — 

"  If  it  had  n't  been  for  that  curious  Double  of 
yours,  that  man  who  was  so  like  you  last  season,  I 
should  never  have  doubted  for  an  instant.  But 
Tenicke,  what  does  your  mother  think  of  all 
this;  ' 


158  Our  Ice  Man. 

"  She  does  n't  know  it.  She  had  a  few  thousands 
secured,  thank  God,  elsewhere ;  and  her  health  fail- 
ing in  all  the  worry  and  excitement,  I  got  her  off 
to  Geneva  with  Chadwick  and  his  sister.  So  you 
see  I  am  working  out  the  problem  alone,  Rachel. 
And  I  don't  have  altogether  a  bad  time  of  it.  I 
get  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  it  suffices  me, 
for  I  don't  live  the  life  of  a  dandy  now.  I  have 
one  room  six  miles  out  of  town  where  I  sleep,  and 
where  on  Sundays  I  cook  my  own  dinner  and  read 
Thoreau  and  Emerson."  He  laughs  a  little,  hold- 
ing me  away  with  two  strong  arms  that  lie  may 
look  in  my  face.  After  a  moment  he  resumes : 
"  Rachel,  there  's  to  be  a  vacancy  in  the  counting- 
room  next  month,  and  the  general,  old  Mr.  Bor- 
land, has  offered  it  to  me.  And,  Rachel,  this  is 
not  all.  I  have  found  that  out  of  the  wreck  of  half 
a  million  I  shall  finally  rescue  five  or  six  thousand 
dollars,  and  I'm  going  to  put  it  into  this  ice  busi- 
ness. Rachel,  will  you  marry  me  on  these  pros- 
pects ?  " 

"  I  '11  marry  you  now,  Tenicke,  on  the  six  hun- 
dred dollars."  • 

"  To-morrow,  then  ;  that 's  the  carriers'  holiday. 
My  wedding  suit  will  be  out  of  fashion  —  a  year 
old,  Rachel ;  and  you  '11  have  to  keep  house  with 
me  in  my  one  room  and  make  my  coffee  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning." 


Our  Ice  Man.  159 

"  I  can  make  better  coffee  than  you  ever  tasted, 
sir." 

We  look  at  each  other  a  moment,  laughing,  both 
of  us ;  then  suddenly  the  arms  that  have  been  hold- 
ing me  off  for  a  better  look  at  my  foolishly  fond 
face  draw  me  nearer,  and  I  am  winking  and  blink- 
ing against  our  ice  man's  blue  flannel  shirt  collar. 

Two  months  from  that  time  we  are  married.  I 
do  not  go  to  housekeeping  in  one  room,  certainly, 
but  in  a  ridiculously  small  cottage  ten  miles  out  of 
town.  Letty,  looking  on,  does  not  envy  me,  but 
she  only  says,  "  To  think  that  Tenicke  Ditworth 
should  turn  out  nothing  but  an  ice  man  after  all." 


IN  THE  RED  ROOM. 


SHALL  have  to  put  you  in  the  red  room, 
Jenny.  I  had  kept  the  east  chamber  for 
you,  but  we  do  have  so  much  unexpected 
company  anniversary  week.  Last  night  Mrs.  Deane 
came  with  her  baby,  and  the  red  room  is  so  far 
away  that  I  didn't  feel  as  if  it  was  just  the  thing  to 
put  her  there." 

"  No,  of  course  not,  and  I  'm  sure  I  'd  as  lief 
sleep  in  the  red  room  as  the  east  room." 

"  Mary  Ann  will  sleep  on  the  lounge  in  the  room, 
so  you  won't  mind." 

*•  For  mercy's  sake,  Martha,  what  do  you  think 
I  want  Mary  Ann  to  sleep  in  the  room  with  me 
for?" 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  get  nervous,  so  far  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  rooms." 

"  Get  nervous  !  why  I  should  never  think  of  such 
a  thing.  What  should  I  get  nervous  about  ?  You 
have  n't  a  burglar  epidemic  just  now,  have  you,  or 
perhaps  a  walking  ghost  ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly." 


In  the  Red  Room.  161 

At  this  reply  Jenny  Merryweather  turned  sud- 
denty  from  the  contemplation  of  her  new  traveling 
suit  which  the  pier-glass  before  her  reflected  in  all 
its  beauties,  turned  suddenly  and  confronted  her 
friend  with  her  inquiring  look. 

"  Martha  Carrique,  it  is  a  ghost,  and  you  were 
going  to  smuggle  me  into  his  den  actually  without 
proper  warning  or  introduction." 

"  You  ridiculous  girl,  there  's  no  ghost  about  it, 
but  there  is  a  foolish  story  connected  with  the  room 
I  thought  you  had  heard." 

"  Only  a  story  of  a  ghost !  Only  the  ghost  of  a 
ghost !  Oh  dear,  Martha,  what  a  disappointment. 
I  did  hope  it  was  one  of  the  veritable  old  colonial 
gentry  such  as  used  to  be  here  once  iii  the  flesh  and 
blood.  Perhaps  Colonel  Carrique  himself,  or  one 
of  the  Hancock  family,  or  that  beautiful  great, 
great,  great  aunt  or  grandmother  of  yours,  whom 
Governor  Hancock  had  to  send  home,  because  the 
Indian  chief  fell  in  love  with  her.  But  on  the 
whole,  I  'd  rather  it  was  that  handsome  Colonel 
Carrique  in  his  royalist  red  coat,  though  it  might 
n't  be  so  proper,  for  I  am  so  tired  of  seeing  nothing 
but  women,  Martha,  that  I  prefer  even  a  visiting 
ghost  to  be  a  masculine  one." 

"  You  ridiculous  girl !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Carrique, 
going  off  into  one  of  her  little  spasms  of  laughter. 

"  That 's  the  second  time  you  've  called  me  that, 
11 


162  In  the  Red  Room. 

Martha.  But  just  think  what  an  out-and-out  lark 
this  is  for  me.  Six  months  tied  down  to  that  b-a 
ba,  b-i  bi,  b-o  bo,  business,  in  that  dear,  dull, 
deserted-of-mankind,  little  native  town  of  mine. 
Positively,  Martha,  there  is  n't  but  one  young  man 
left  in  the  place,  and  he  's  rather  non  compos.  And 
for  the  rest,  for  the  older  ones,  the  married  men, 
you  never  saw  such  ungallant  creatures.  No  wo- 
man need  be  jealous  of  her  husband  in  our  to\vn, 
Martha.  If  Frank  gets  frisky  here,  you  just  bring 
him  down  to  Balem,  there  's  something  in  the  very 
air  there  that  takes  all  the  frisk  out  of  them.  Why, 
I  went  to  a  school-meeting  one  night,  Martha,  where 
I  happened  to  be  the  only  lady  with  seven  gentle- 
men. Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  —  those 
seven  men  allowed  me  to  walk  home  —  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  —  alone.  Not  one  of  them  had  the  polite- 
ness, the  decency,  to  offer  himself  as  an  escort. 
Stop,  Martha,  you  need  n't  call  me  a  ridiculous 
girl  again ;  I  'm  not  embroidering  in  the  least,  I  'm 
telling  you  a  downright  fact.  The  worst  of  it  was, 
the  injurious  effect  upon  my  sell-esteem.  I  was  n't 
at  all  afraid  to  walk  through  our  Puritanic  little 
streets  even  if  it  had  been  midnight,  but  to  have 
seven  men  unite  in  showing  you  that  you  were  not 
sufficiently  agreeable  to  charm  them  out  of  their 
stolid,  selfish  laziness  even  into  momentary  good 
manners  was  humiliating.  Suppose  they  had  known 


In  the  Red  Room.  163 

me  all  their  lives  ?  What  had  that  to  do  with  it  ? 
Oh.  I  tell  you,  Martha,  I  have  n't  held  up  my  head 
since  !  "  and  Jenny  Merryweather  disclosed  all  her 
little  milk-white  teeth  at  this  announcement.  Saun- 
tering along  the  wide  halls,  and  the  queer  passage- 
ways in  this  queer  old  house,  the  two  girls  —  for 
Mrs.  Carrique,  spite  of  her  matronly  honors,  was 
o"nly  one  of  the  Saturday  Reviewers  "  great  girls  " 
—  came  just  at  this  crisis  of  the  conversation  to  the 
red  room  in  question.  This  room  was  situated  in 
the  northwest  corner  of  the  house,  in  what  was 
called  "  the  gable  end."  It  was  divided  from  the 
other  bed-chambers  by  a  long  passage  opening  from 
the  main  hall  by  a  narrow  door.  Seen  in  the  noon 
sunshine,  it  looked  the  cosiest  chamber  in  the  world, 
with  its  red  carpet  and  curtains,  and  the  pretty  out- 
look upon  the  gardens  and  the  green  hills  of  Mid- 
dlesex County.  But  that  night  when  Mrs.  Carrique 
accompanied  her  young  guest  again  through  the 
halls  and  passage-ways,  and  finally  entered  the 
isolated  room  to  see  if  her  not  peculiarly  reliable 
chambermaid  had  discharged  her  duty  thoroughly, 
the  red  room  had  lost  its  cheerful  aspect,  and  by 
the  light  of  the  two  candles  the  red  carpet  and 
draperies  took  on  a  sombre  depth  and  shade  that 
was  by  no  means  enlivening,  or  at  least  such  was 
the  opinion  of  the  hostess  herself  on  this  second 
visit.  Jenny  was  chattering  away  as  usual,  and 


164  In  the  Red  Room. 

seemed  to  be  entirely  unobservant  of  the  change 
which  night  had  wrought  in  her  surroundings. 

"  It  does  look  so  lonesome  here  at  night,"  at  last 
broke  out  Mrs.  Carrique,  "  that  I  do  think  you  had 
better  have  Mary  Ann  sleep  on  the  lounge." 

Jenny  stopped  pulling  out  the  twenty-six  hair- 
pins that  held  that  marvelous  structure  of  braids 
and  curls  and  frizzes  together,  and  turning  rouncl 
from  the  mirror  looked  with  real  and  not  affected 
astonishment  at  her  friend. 

"  Martha,  /think  you  are  getting  hipped  in  this 
old  trap.  The  idea  of  your  talking  to  me  about 
nerves.  Have  n't  we  a  whole  pack  of  ghosts  in 
Balem,  and  one  a  regular  old  witch  ?  Nervous ! 
my  dear,  feel  of  that  arm,"  and  with  a  gay  little 
smile  she  held  out  a  round,  white  member,  the 
healthy  firmness  of  which  told  an  enviable  story 
of  circulation  and  digestion.  "  That  means  pulling 
oars  with  Jimmy  and  beating  him  at  that,"  this 
merry  little  Jenny  went  on,  nodding  and  smiling ; 
"and  it  means,  too,  Mrs.  Martha  Carrique,  that  I 
am  so  sound  and  healthy,  as  Aunt  Desire  says,  'so 
rudely  healthy,'  that  if  I  have  any  nerves  they  are 
completely  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind.  So  now 
you  can  just  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep  without  any 
more  worry  about  me,  or  threats  of  Mary  Ann." 

Mrs.  Carrique,  thus  adjured,  takes  a  final  survey 
of  window  and  door  fastenings,  and  bids  her  guest 


In  the  Red  Room.  165 

good-night.  And  not  many  minutes  after  Jenny 
Merryvveather,  having  disposed  of  those  twenty-six 
hair-pins  and  the  structure  of  braids  and  curls  and 
frizzes,  is  snugly  ensconced  between  the  clover- 
scented  sheets,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

u  And  to  think,  Frank,  that  I  forgot  to  tell  her 
the  ghost  story  after  all,"  says  Mrs.  Martha,  as  she 
rejoins  her  husband. 

"  All  the  better  that  you  did  n't  repeat  that  fool- 
ish stuff." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  that  anything  would  disturb 
Jenny.  I  never  saw  such  a  girl.  It  was  n't  so  strange 
that  /should  forget  that  I  had  n't  told  her  the  story, 
but  that  she  should  care  so  little  as  to  ask  no  ques- 
tions on  what  is  usually  so  interesting  to  girls." 

"  But  Jenny  has  been  brought  up  on  ghost 
stories.  Balem  is  full  of  'em,  you  know.  She 
came  here  for  something  new,  Martha." 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning  Jenny 
appeared  with  the  brightest  of  faces. 

"  Well,"  she  said  laughingly,  "  your  ghost  did  n't 
pay  me  a  visit,  Martha,  but  I  did  have  the  queerest 
dream." 

"  I  hope  it  was  a  pleasant  one ;  you  know  what 
the  sign  is  about  the  first  dream  under  a  strange 
roof." 

"  That  it  will  come  true  ;  well,  I  don't  think  my 
dream  is  likely  to  come  true,"  and  Jenny  laughed 
again. 


166  In  the  Red  Room. 

"  You  've  no  objection  to  telling  it  to  us,  have 
you  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Carrique. 

"  Oh,  not  in  the  least.  I  went  to  sleep  almost  as 
quick  as  my  head  touched  the  pillow,  and  it  was  in 
this  first  sleep  that  I  met  your  ancestor  Colonel 
Carrique.  You  know  we  had  been  speaking  of 
him,  Martha,  and  I  had  admired  his  portrait  and 
told  you  that  if  I  was  to  be  visited  by  a  ghost 
I  should  prefer  the  handsome  royalist.  Well  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  at  a  great  party  in  this  very 
house,  only  the  furniture  was  all  of  it  quite  old- 
fashioned,  and  instead  of  your  big  windows  there 
were  ever  so  many  smaller  ones,  and  so  high  from 
the  floor  they  looked  like  prison  windows  to  me"  — 

"  Well,  I  declare,  Jenny  that  was  the  very  ap- 
pearance the  house  presented  before  we  altered  it. 
Did  I  ever  give  you  that  description  of  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  sure  you  did  n't,  for  the  only  letter  I 
got  from  you  after  you  purchased  the  house  was 
an  invitation  to  visit  you,  and  as  I  have  n't  seen 
you  since,  until  yesterday,  and  Frank  answered 
my  note  to  you  by  a  telegram  that  he  would  meet 
me  at  2  P.  M.,  Wednesday,  I  don't  see  where  you 
could  have  told  your  story  of  improvements." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  she  told  you  yesterday,  Miss 
Jenny,  when  you  first  arrived." 

*'  Indeed  she  did  n't,  Mr.  Carrique.  I  don't  lose 
my  memory  quite  so  easily  as  that,"  answered  Jenny, 
laughing,  but  a  little  nettled. 


In  the  Red  Room.  167 

"  I  see,  I  s.ee,  you  are  bound  to  put  it  all  to  the 
red  room  account,"  Mr.  Carrique  returned,  gayly. 

Jenny  looked  at  him  with  a  rather  puzzled  face, 
but  Mrs.  Carrique  sent  her  off  of  that  track,  by 
saying,  *'  Come,  do  go  on  with  your  dream,  Jenny. 
There  's  nothing  I  like  so  much  to  hear  about  as 
people's  dreams." 

Thus  adjured,  Jenny  went  on.  "  When  I  came 
into  the  room  where  all  these  gentry  were,  the  first 
person  I  saw  distinctly  was  a  tall,  handsome  man, 
in  a  red  royalist  uniform  just  like  that  in  the  pic- 
ture of  Colonel  Carrique,  and  the  face  of  this  gen- 
tleman was  precisely  like  the  face  in  the  portrait. 
He  came  forward  to  meet  me  as  I  entered,  and  as 
he  stood  before  me  a  moment  what  do  you  think 
he  said  ?  "  And  here  pausing,  Jenny  laughs  and 
actually  blushes  a  little. 

"  We  give  it  up  ;  none  of  this  family  are  good  at 
conundrums,  Jenny,"  Frank  Carrique  remarks  ;  and 
so  with  another  little  laugh,  and  another  little  blush 
Jenny  proceeds  again  :  — 

"  He  said  in  such  a  low  tone  that  I  understood 
at  once  that  nobody  but  myself  was  expected  to 
hear  it :  '  Miss  Merry  weather,  my  nephew  has  ar- 
rived, and  is  impatient  to  meet  his  promised  wife/ 
The  next  moment  he  turned  about  and  a  young 
man  not  at  all  like  the  colonel  and  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  to-day  stood  before  me.  He  put  out  his 


168  In  the  Red  Room. 

hand  to  take  mine,  and  as  he  did  so  I  started  back 
in  a  sort  of  fright,  whereupon  the  old  colonel  bent 
down  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  It  is  of  no  use  for 
you  to  resist,  my  dear ;  it  is  your  fate.' 

"  This  only 'frightened  me  the  more,  and  I  turned 
and  ran  out  of  the  room  as  fast  as  my  feet  could 
carry  me.  The  colonel  ran  after  me  not  at  all  in  a 
rage  but  laughing  immoderately.  But  I  was  too 
swift  for  him.  I  ran  straight  to  the  red  room  and 
banged  the  door  in  his  face.  At  that  instant  I 
awoke,  laughing  myself.  I  lay  awake  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  falling  fast  asleep  again,  I  took  up 
my  dream  just  where  I  left  off,  for  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  colonel's  laughter  growing  fainter  and 
fainter,  and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  as  he  went 
down  the  stairs.  I  had  escaped  the  colonel,  but 
there  before  me  stood  an  old,  old  lady  with  a 
white  satin  dress  over  her  arm.  'It's  of  no  use 
for  you  to  resist,'  she  said,  repeating  the  colonel's 
words  and  wagging  her  head  wickedly  at  me,  '  it 's 
your  fate ; '  and  then  wagging  her  head  still  more, 
4  for  this  prank  of  yours,  you  will  be  married  to- 
night, Miss.'  Do  what  I  would  I  could  n't  seem  to 
escape  from  the  old  woman,  until  after  that  white 
satin  dress  had  been  donned,  and  then  as  she  opened 
the  door  and  seized  my  wrist  to  lead  me  down,  I 
sprung  away,  but  my  foot  caught  in  my  grand  gown, 
and  I  felt  myself  falling  in  that  horrid  way  one 


In  the  Red  Room.  169 

does  in  dreams.  While  I  was  falling,  I  awoke  again. 
I  lay  awhile  speculating  about  my  odd  dream,  and 
the  special  oddity  of  my  resuming  it  in  the  man- 
ner I  had.  And  in  this  speculation  I  fell  asleep 
once  more,  and  once  more  resumed  the  same  thread. 
This  time  I  was  lying  in  a  great  canopied  bed  in 
that  very  red  room,  and  the  old  lady  and  the  colo- 
nel were  standing  before  me  looking  as  solemn  as 
judges.  The  old  lady  came  close  up  to  the  bed, 
and  leaning  over  me,  said  in  a  shrill  little  voice : 
*  You  won't  escape  us  again,  Miss,  I  can  tell  you. 
That  ancestress  of  yours  served  this  family  a  nice 
trick  in  her  day,  and  got  us  well  scandalized  by  her 
folly.'  Then  that  handsome  colonel  laughed,  and 
said  in  the  politest  way :  'And  you,  my  dear,  are 
going  to  atone  for  all  that.  You'll  unite'  —  and 
snap  here  went  the  thread  again.  I  suppose  it 
was  that  horrid  little  black-and-tan  terrier  of  yours 
who  was  yapping  under  my  window  that  woke  me 
this  time.  I  went  to  sleep  again,  but  I  did  n't  re- 
sume my  dream  again,  and  I  did  so  want  to  hear 
what  the  colonel  was  going  to  say." 

"  The  fact  of  it  is,  you  were  disappointed  in  not 
meeting  that  nephew  again,  Miss  Jenny,"  said 
Frank  Carrique,  jocosely,  x 

*  "But  was  n't  it  a  very  odd  dream,  taking  the  fact 
of  my  resuming  it  twice  after  waking?"  asked 
Jenny  here,  giving  no  heed  to  Mr.  Carrique's  fa- 
cetia. 


170  In  the  Red  Room. 

"  Well,  yes,  it  was  rather  odd,  but  still  that  fact 
of  resuming  a  dream  is  n't  uncommon." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  it  is,"  returns  Jenny, 
feeling  somehow  by  Mr.  Carrique's  words  and  man- 
ner as  if  she  had  been  telling  a  very  foolish  and 
uninteresting  story.  Martha,  too,  looked  dull  and 
distraite,  and  that  little  Mrs.  Deane  had  a  queer, 
constrained  expression  as  if  she  were  laughing  at 
her.  Abashed  at  first  by  these  indications,  our 
little  school-mistress  at  the  second  turn  of  her 
thought  became  considerably  nettled  ;  and  being  a 
rather  quick-tempered  little  lady,  there  is  no  know- 
ing what  sarcastic  expression  she  might  have  found, 
if  just  at  the  moment  a  diversion  had  not  been 
created  by  the  arrival  of  fresh  guests.  Before  the 
day  was  over  the  fresh  guests  and  the  fresh  scenes, 
and  Martha's  real  pleasure  in  her  society  shown 
at  every  turn,  dispelled  the  little  cloud  entirely. 
Later,  the  memory,  not  the  cloud  itself,  came  be- 
fore her  with  a  new  significance.  But  this  was  so 
late,  at  the  very  end  of  her  visit,  indeed,  that  we 
won't  talk  of  it  just  now.  In  the  interim  lay  all 
that  beautiful  time  of  summer,  and  freedom  from 
what  she  called  that  b-a  ba,  b-i  bi,  b-o  bo  business  ; 
the  weary  little  round  of  her  primary  school  duties. 

There  has  come  to  be  a  saying  in  Boston  that 
has  almost  passed  into  a  proverb,  that  it  always 
rains  anniversary  week  ;  but  on  this  anniversary- 


In  the  Red  Room.  171 

of  Jenny's  first  visit  to  her  friend  since  that  friend 
had  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  matronhood,  and  an 
ancestral  mansion,  on  this  first  and  most  eventful 
visit  of  hers,  the  May  sky  refused  to  weep  its  usual 
anniversary  tears,  and  the  sun  shone,  with  the  ther- 
mometer in  the  eighties  for  days.  But  in  and  out, 
in  and  out,  sometimes  by  horse-car  and  sometimes 
in  Mr.  Carriqne's  pretty  beach  wagon,  our  little 
Yankee  school-mistress  took  her  way  in  the  dust 
and  heat  to  listen  to  the  heresies  in  Tremont  Tem- 
ple, or  the  more  orthodox  controversies  in  Music 
Hall. 

"  How  you  can  stand  so  much  theology  and  phi- 
losophy, I  don't  see,  Jenny,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mar- 
tha, one  morning  towards  the  end  of  the  week,  as 
Jenny  came  down  equipped  for  her  daily  excursion. 
"  And  what 's  more,  Jenny,  how  you  can  compre- 
hend it  all  passes  me." 

"Comprehend  it?  bless  me,"  ejaculated  Jenny 
briskly;  "I  don't  pretend  to  comprehend  half  of 
it.  Why,  Martha,  I  go  to  see  the  people ;  to  meet 
my  friends  and  acquaintances.  You  don't  consider 
that  I  'm  a  country  girl  compared  to  you,  and  that 
I  'm  on  a  vacation  lark,  and  mean  to  make  the  most 
of  my  time." 

"  Goodness  gracious ! "  cried  Mrs.  Martha,  at 
this,  ".and  I  thought,  and  Frank  thought,  all  the 
time,  that  you  were  up  to  all  those  isms ;  and  you 


172  In  the  Red  Room. 

just  go  there  for  nothing  in  the  world  but  to  meet 
the  people,  like  any  other  girl." 

"  Yes,  did  you  expect  I  was  n't  like  any  other 
girl,  I  should  like  to  know,  Martha  Carrique  ?  " 

••  Why,  yes,  in  a  way  I  suppose  I  did.  And  you 
are,  you  know,  Jenny,  rather  on  the  intellectual 
pattern  compared  to  me." 

Jenny  laughed.  "  Compared  to  you !  My  su- 
perior intellect,  I  suppose,  is  shown  in  teaching  an 
infant-school,  and  not  being  afraid  of  ghosts.  That 
last  virtue,  however,  is  only  a  matter  of  physical 
health.  But,  by  the  way,  Martha,  you  have  n't 
told  me  your  ghost  story  yet,  and  now  's  your  time. 
I've  got  just  twenty  minutes  before  the  car  starts." 

Martha  "  looks  queer."  "  Oh,  it 's  nothing  but 
an  old  tale  about  the  colonel  arid  some  friend  of 
his  appearing  now  and  then." 

u  The  old  lady  I  met  in  my  dream,  very  likely," 
laughs  Jenny. 

"You  have  n't  met  her  or  the  colonel  since  that 
first  night,  have  you,  Jenny  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  met  the  nephew  they  were  so  anxious 
to  make  me  marry,  last  night,  and  I  'm  getting 
quite  reconciled  to  the  match,  Martha." 

A  little  more  in  this  gay  strain,  and  then  this 
pretty,  brown-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  "  country  girl," 
as  she  calls  herself,  trips  off  on  that  sight-seeing, 
social  errand  which,  if  the  truth  were  told,  brings 


In  the  Red  Room.  173 

more  people  together  in  Boston  on  this  famous  an- 
niversary week  than  all  the  ologies  and  isms  com- 
bined. But  in  spite  of  her  modest  disclaimer  of 
other  interest  Jenny  had  a  quick  mind  and  an  ap- 
preciation of  some  fine  things  beyond  her.  And  so 
on  this  last  day  as  she  sat  in  Tremont  Temple,  and 
heard  the  cadences  of  a  far-famed  voice,  she  forgot 
her  social  errand  entirely,  and  listened,  if  not  with 
thorough  understanding,  with  great  admiration  and 
the  keenest  attention.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  this 
eloquence,  and  while  her  attention  was  at  its  height, 
that  .#  lady  acquaintance  leaned  over  from  a  front 
seat  and  signaled  for  her  fan.  As  she  reached 
forward  in  passing  it,  a  gentleman  near  her  turned 
his  face  towards  her.  Jenny  Merry  weather's  nerves 
were  well  sheathed,  as  she  had  said,  under  that 
firm,  healthy  flesh  of  hers ;  but  a  very  queer  sensa- 
tion thrilled  her  as  she  saw  that  the  face  of  this 
stranger  —  was  the  face  of  the  man  she  had  twice 
met  in  her  dreams  —  the  face  of  the  man  whom  the 
old  royalist  had  called  his  nephew.  In  the  sudden 
movement  the  gentleman  had  changed  his  position 
and  now  sat  where  she  had  a  full  view  of  his  linea- 
ments. Yes,  there  were  the  same  marked  linea- 
ments ;  the  high  and  long  nose,  the  searching,  but 
at  the  same  time  peculiarly  drooping  eyes,  above 
which  straight  black  brows  and  heavy,  short-cut 
hair  gave  a  resolute  look,  which  the  square  shaven 


174  In  the  Red  Room. 

chin  by  no  means  counteracted.  The  only  sign  ot 
beard  was  on  the  upper  lip  —  a  thickly-grown, 
well-trained  ebon  moustache.  How  the  famous  or- 
ator progressed  in  his  discourse  after  this,  Jenny 
never  knew.  But  at  the  end  of  the  discourse,  as 
she  stood  waiting  to  pass  out,  she  suddenly  became 
aware  that  those  searching  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  face  with  a  curious  intentness.  Friends  and 
acquaintances  approached  her,  and  she  responded 
to  their  salutations,  and  laughed  and  talked  in  her 
ordinary  manner ;  but  all  the  time  she  was  quite 
conscious  of  her  unknown,  mysterious  neighbor, 
quite  conscious  that  he  was  keeping  her  in  view 
through  the  slow  passage  to  the  door.  Then,  in  a 
moment,  she  lost  sight  of  him.  She  was  to  meet 
Martha  that  day  at  the  Parker  House,  where  they 
were  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  lunch  together,  and 
afterwards  indulge  themselves  in  a  millinery  hunt. 
Over  that  first  cup  of  coffee  Jenny  told  her  strange 
story  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Martha  looked  as  if  all  the  ghosts  of  the 
ancestral  mansion  had  suddenly  appeared  before 
her.  When  she  found  voice  from  the  excess  of 
amazement  it  was  to  say :  "  Who  would  have 
thought,  Jenny,  that  sucli  a  little,  matter-of-fact, 
practical  person  as  you  would  have  been  the  her- 
oine of  such  an  uncanny  mystery  ?  " 

Jenny  laughed.     Then  in  a  moment,  "  Martha, 


In  the  Red  Room.  175 

you  treat  this  little  sequel  to  my  dream  with  more 
respect  than  you  did  the  dream  itself." 

Martha  colored,  glancing  at  Jenny  in  a  quick, 
observant  way,  hut  made  no  reply.  "  And  I  don't 
know  as  I  wonder  at  it,"  went  on  Jenny.  "  Of 
course,  this  queer  fact  of  my  meeting  my  dream- 
gentleman  in  broad  daylight  makes  the  chief  in- 
terest in  the  dream  itself.  But  T  must  say  /found 
the  dream  exceedingly  interesting  before,"  with  an 
arch,  significant  glance  at  Martha.  But  Martha, 
evidently  not  disposed  to  discuss  this  matter,  asks 
abruptly  :  u  Jenny,  you  said  you  met  this  person  in 
your  dream  last  night.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  Well,  there  is  n't  much  to  tell.  I  don't  remem- 
ber any  events  as  in  the  first  dream.  He  seemed 
to  appear  before  me  as  if  for  no  other  reason  but 
to  impress  his  face  upon  my  memory,  or  it  seems 
like  that  now  ;  for  though  it  made  a  clear  impres- 
sion in  the  first  dream,  it  was  nothing  like  the  ex- 
actness with  which  every  feature  and  every  expres- 
sion fixed  itself  like  a  photograph  in  my  mind  last 
night." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  the  whole  affair, 
never,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Carrique  with  emphasis. 

"  /  have,"  quietly  returned  Jenny.  "  Nothing 
of  the  kind,  of  course,  ever  came  under  my  own 
observation  or  experience  before,  but  I  've  read  and 
heard  of  such  things.  We  're  Scotch  folks,  you 


176  In  the  Red  Room. 

know,  on  ray  mother's  side,  and  I  've  heard 
Grandma  MacKay  tell  a  great  many  of  those  old, 
second-sight,  Scotch  stories,  and  specially  about 
such  dreams  as  mine.  A  great  many  of  them,  I 
believe,  are  purely  imaginary,  helped  on  by  some 
old  tradition,  but  now  and  then  something  like  this 
experience  of  mine  happens  to  some  practical  little 
body  like  myself." 

"  I  wonder  what  Frank  will  say  to  this  !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Carrique,  in  a  sort  of  triumph. 

"/sha'ii't  tell  him.  but  you  can  if  you  please." 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  and  that  very  night  she 
kept  her  word. 

Frank  Carrique  laughed  as  was  his  wont.  And 
what  he  said  was  not  much  more  encouraging  to 
Mrs.  Martha.  In  fact,  he  doubted  the  whole  story ; 
believed  that  Jenny  had  become  so  impressed  with 
that  dream-gentleman  that  she  endowed  the  first 
fine-looking  fellow  she  saw  with  his  lineaments. 

"  That  shows  how  much  you  know  Jenny  Merry- 
weather  !  "  retorted  his  wife  in  great  scorn.  "  She  's 
about  as  fanciful  as  you  are,  —  just  about.  I  wish 
you  'd  seen  her  at  lunch  while  she  was  fresh  from 
that  queer  encounter,  and  relating  it  to  me.  It 
really  excited  me  so  much  that  I  forgot  my  appetite. 
But  Jenny  !  "  —  and  Mrs.  Carrique  stopped,  unable 
to  express  herself  adequately  upon  the  marvel  of 
Jenny's  appetite  at  such  a  time. 


In  the  Red  Room.  177 

"  I  don't  think  Jenny  is  very  fanciful,  myself, 
Martha,  but  girls  will  be  girls,"  declared  Mr.  Car- 
rique,  with  the  young  masculine  air  of  settling  the 
matter  by  his  summing  up. 

"  And  stupid  men  Witt  be  stupid  men,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Carrique,  with  a  grimace  at  her  lord  and 
master. 

Aggravating  as  all  this  unbelief  was  to  Mrs. 
Martha,  she  took  pretty  good  care  not  to  seek 
sympathy  on  the  subject  from  Jenny.  Her  visit 
would  come  to  an  end  now  in  three  days,  and  she 
meant  that  it  should  end  as  smoothly  and  pleasantly 
as  possible.  The  last  night  of  all,  the  ancestral 
mansion  was  to  be  turned  into  a  pretty  scene  of 
festivity  —  a  farewell  party  for  the  two  or  three 
guests  whose  departure  would  be  nearly  simultane- 
ous. On  the  morning  of  this  last  day  Jenny  came 
down  equipped  for  an  expedition  to  the  city  again. 

"  Now,  Jenny,  what  are  you  going  to  heat  your- 
self up  for  to-day  of  all  days  —  the  anniversaries 
are  over,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  have  new  ribbons  for  my  pink 
dress." 

"  And  so  you  are  going  to  heat  yourself  and  get 
red  and  blowsy  for  to-night." 

"  Martha  wants  you  to  look  your  best  before  her 
new  relations.  There 's  to  be  a  very  strong  force 
of  Carriques  to-night,  you  know ;  and  I  believe  she 


178  In  the  Red  Room. 

has  a  special  design  about  a  certain  cousin  of  mine, 
Tom  Carrique,  who  happens  to  be  here  now  from 
Philadelphia." 

"  Now,  Frank  "  — 

"  Now,  Martha,  I  'm  not  going  to  have  Miss 
Jenny  taken  unawares/' 

"  Jenny,  if  you  believe  half  that  Frank  says,"  — 
began  Mrs.  Carrique,  with  a  little  guilty  blush. 

"  I  don't,"  retorted  Jenny,  laughingly.  "  I  be- 
lieve only  one  third,  the  other  two  thirds  I  put 
down  to  pure  fancy,  following  his  wise  example  of 
judgment  where  the  opposite  sex  are  concerned  !  " 
There  was  a  mischievous  sparkle  in  the  glance  that 
this  little  Jenny  darted  at  Mr.  Carrique  here,  which 
winged  her  arrow  straight  to  the  mark. 

"  Oh  ho,"  thought  that  gentleman ;  "  so  Mart, 
after  all,  went  and  told  her  of  my  heresy  about  that 
dream-hero  of  hers." 

But  Mart  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind,  as  he 
found  out  later.  Walls,  it  is  said,  have  ears,  but 
Jenny  found  not  even  a  wall  barrier  as  she  sat  on 
the  door-stone  that  day  and  the  wind  came  sweep- 
ing every  sound  to  her,  far  and  near.  Slu-  had 
been  a  good  deal  nettled,  when  this  accident 
brought  Mr.  Carrique's  persistent  disbelief  to  her, 
but  she  had  succeeded  so  well  in  keeping  out  of 
sight  that  no  one  suspected  it  until  this  small  shot. 
Full  of  wonder,  but  fearing  a  little  breeze,  Mi>. 


In  the  Red  Room.  179 

Carrique  turned  the  conversation  by  going  back  to 
the  pink  dress. 

"  Why  don't  you  wear  your  white  tarlatan, 
Jenny?  It  would  be  lovely  with  a  trimming  ot 
pink  roses  and  buds." 

"  Yes,  but  where  are  the  pink  roses  and  buds, 
Mrs.  Carrique  ?  " 

"At  McDougal's  greenhouse,  my  dear.  I  've 
ordered  loads  of  flowers  from  there  and  I  might  as 
well  tell  him  to  send  me  some  roses.  Don't  you 
remember  that  small,  perfect,  pink  rose  we  saw 
there  the  other  day.  I  don't  know  what  variety  it 
is,  I  never  can  remember  such  things,  but  it  would 
be  just  lovely  for  your  white  dress." 

This  settled  the  matter,  for  Jenny  had  greater 
faith  in  Martha's  taste  than  her  own.  That  night 
standing  before  the  long  mirror  in  the  red  room, 
she  suddenly  turned  to  Martha,  who  was  looping 
the  overskirt,  with  the  words :  "  Martha,  you  '11 
think  I  'm  cracked,  I  dare  say ;  but  as  true  as  I  am 
standing  here,  I  remember  now,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  was  looking  just  like  this,  in  this  white  dress 
and  pink  roses  I  mean,  when  I  found  myself  stand- 
ing before  the  old  colonel  in  my  dream.  I  remem- 
ber now,  that  I  stood  at  this  very  glass  before  I 
went  down,  and  regarded  myself  as  I  do  now." 

"  My  goodness  gracious ! "  exclaimed  Martha, 
dropping  a  whole  paper  of  pins,  in  her  trepidation. 


180  In  the  Red  Room. 

"You  know  I  told  you  at  the  time  that  the 
nephew's  dress  was  of  the  fashion  of  to-day,  but  I 
never  remembered  my  own  dress  until  this  moment. 
This  is  what  you  call  a  latent  memory,  I  suppose," 
and  Jenny  laughed  a  little. 

"  My  goodness  gracious  !  "  again  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Martha,  as  she  picked  up  her  pins,  "  I  believe  it 
all  comes  of  this  room,  Jenny,  and  —  but  there's 
the  bell  and  I  'm  not  half  ready,"  with  which  cu- 
riously unfinished  sentence  Mrs.  Martha  whisked 
out  of  the  room  as  if  she  were  fleeing  from  a  small 
army  of  ghosts.  Jenny  looked  after  her  in  sur- 
prise ;  and  for  a  moment  as  she  stood  there  alone 
and  heard  the  wind  sweeping  through  the  long 
passages,  and  clicking  the  old  door  latches,  an  un- 
defined feeling  came  over  her,  not  of  fear,  but  of 
something  unusual,  either  in  the  atmosphere  about 
her,  or  in  her  own  state  of  mind.  "  It  is  all  in  my 
own  mind,  of  course,  and  no  wonder  after  all  this 
queer  dream  work,"  she  concluded,  as  she  took  up 
her  gloves  and  went  down  to  the  drawing-room. 
Once  in  that  gay,  bright  room,  seeing  the  pretty 
reflection  of  herself  in  the  long  mirrors,  and  meet- 
ing an  endless  array  of  Carriques  in  one  and  two 
and  three  generations,  she  forgot  all  about  the 
"  dream  work  "  and  its  puzzles,  and  remembered 
only  the  very  agreeable  present  —  that  she  was 
looking  her  best,  and  that  Tom  Carrique's  eyes,  as 


In  the  Red  Room.  181 

he  bent  above  her,  were  beaming  with  a  flattering 
consciousness  of  that  fact.  The  rooms  were  rapidly 
filling  with  brilliantly  dressed  people,  but  her  new 
admirer  held  his  place  beside  her,  as  if  he  intended 
to  hold  it  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  they  were 
both  in  the  full  swing  of  that  remarkable  nonsense 
young  people  delight  in,  when  Jenny's  attention  was 
arrested  by  her  host's  voice,  exclaiming  in  a  tone  of 
great  astonishment :  "  What,  you,  Henry  !  What  in 
the  world  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Merryweather,"  ex- 
plained her  companion,  "it 's  only  another  Carrique; 
he  is  n't  considered  up  to  the  Carrique  standard  of 
good  looks,  but,  however,  here  he  comes,  so  you 
can  judge  for  yourself." 

"  I  came  on  in  the  Europe,  and  I  should  have 
been  in  to  see  you  a  day  or  two  ago,  but  Morris 
and  Kate  wanted  me  to  come  out  with  them  and 
surprise  you."  This  was  the  answer  Jenny  heard 
in  reply  to  Frank  Carrique's  question,  and  the  next 
moment  the  owner  of  the  voice  came  in  sight,  and 
she  saw  —  the  hero  of  her  dream  again!  Her  gay 
companion  rattled  on,  and  she  responded  with  that 
sense  of  perception  which  keeps  the  external  routine 
of  social  life  in  order  under  difficult  circumstances. 
But  all  the  while  she  was  watching  the  new-comer, 
listening  to  Martha's  cordial  reception  of  him,  and 
holding  her  breath  in  a  sort  of  eager  restraint  till 
she  should  be  brought  face  to  face  ^^ith  him. 


182  In  the  Red  Room. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  tension  began  to 
show  a  little.  Tom  Carrique,  regarding  her  with  a 
half-laughing  scrutiny,  said  to  her  :  — 

"  Miss  Merry  weather,  what  is  it  ?  you  look  as  if 
you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

u  Perhaps  I  have,"  she  answered,  in  the  same 
tone.  The  next  moment  she  knew  that  Frank 
Carrique  was  standing  before  her,  and  was  saying 
in  his  jovial  voice :  "  Here 's  another  Carrique, 
Miss  Jenny.  My  cousin,  Mr.  Henry  Carrique, 
fresh  from  Paris,  Miss  Merryweather." 

Then,  almost  reluctantly,  she  raised  her  eyes, 
and  met  the  same  intent  gaze  she  had  received  in 
Tremont  Temple  three  days  ago.  As  Frank  Car- 
rique moved  off  to  speak  to  some  one  else,  this 
new-comer,  bending  forward  a  little,  asked  in  the 
quietest  way :  k'  Did  you  like  Weiss  the  other  morn- 
ing? I  believe  I  saw 
directly  back  of  me." 

'•  What  an  impression  my  strange  staring  must 
have  made  upon  him,"  was  Jenny's  uneasy  thought 
at  this.  But  she  needn't  have  feared.  Henry 
Carrique  was  no  more  vain  or  self-conscious  than 
herself.  He  had  not  flattered  himself  by  such  ob- 
servance as  Jenny  had  given  him.  She  had  inter- 
ested him  for  quite  another  reason.  It  was  for 
this  reason,  doubtless,  that  he  held  his  place  be- 
side her  for  so  long  a  time,  talking  to  her  in  that 


In  the  Red  Room.  183 

same  quiet  confidential  tone  with  which  he  had  be- 
gun his  conversation  with  her. 

"  Henry  has  cut  me  out  entirely  with  your  little 
school-mistress,"  whispered  Tom  Carrique,  in  Mrs. 
Martha's  ear,  in  the  course  of  this  "  conversation." 

Mrs.  Martha  laughed,  but  she  looked  disturbed. 
She  had  always  heard  vague  reports  that  Henry 
Carrique  was  a  very  agreeable  man,  who  made 
himself  fascinating  to  women  with  no  intentions 
of  marrying,  and  although  she  had  by  no  means 
set  herself  to  the  onerous  task  of  match-making, 
she  did  n't  want  her  friend  Jenny  trifled  with. 
Making  a  little  detour  presently  she  made  a  little 
effort  at  breaking  up  the  prolonged  tete-a-tete,  but 
unsuccessfully.  At  this  failure  she  beckoned  to 
her  husband. 

"  Break  up  that  flirtation,  Frank,  and  bring 
Jenny  over  to  me.  I  want  her  to  know  the  Dun- 
ham girls." 

"  Flirtation !  they  are  talking  about  the  iron 
mines  in  some  Russian  town,"  Frank  responded, 
with  a  laugh  at  his  wife. 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  are  talking  about ;  I  tell 
you  it 's  a  flirtation,  Frank,  and  I  want  you  to  break 
it  up.  I  don't  approve  of  such  monopolizing  on  the 
part  of  your  cousin." 

Frank  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  saw  how  it 
was,  but  like  a  sensible  host  —  would  that  hostesses 


184  In  the  Red  Room. 

possessed  the  same  shining  virtue  —  he  hated  to 
break  up  a  tete-a-tete.  "  Why  can't  women  let 
each  other  alone  ? "  was  his  inward  query ;  but 
being  a  very  new  husband  he  felt  bound  to  please 
his  wife  at  any  cost,  and  so,  though  much  against 
his  will,  went  forward  to  do  her  bidding.  It  is 
very  curious  how  a  concealed  motive  will  some- 
times convey  itself  to  the  person  or  persons  most 
concerned.  There  was  certainly  nothing  strange 
in  the  fact  that  a  pretty  girl  like  Miss  Merry- 
weather  should  be  wanted  elsewhere,  and  Henry 
Carrique  was  sufficiently  a  man  of  society  to  know 
that  he  had  rather  monopolized  the  young  lady  ; 
but  when  Frank  Carrique,  following  his  wife,  came 
up  with  the  easy  and  natural  request  that  Miss  Jen- 
ny would  allow  him  to  introduce  her  to  the  Dunham 
girls,  Henry  Carrique  knew  that  this  was  simply 
a  ruse  to  separate  him  from  his  companion.  He 
laughed  a  little,  and  thought  quickly,  "  So  I  'm 
warned  off,  eh  ?  "  And,  as  a  matter  of  course,  a 
new  element  of  interest  was  added  to  the  curiosity 
he  already  felt  about  his  new  acquaintance.  Jenny, 
too,  as  keen,  perhaps  keener,  in  her  perceptions, 
made  a  conclusion  not  far  from  the  truth,  that  Mr. 
Henry  Carrique  was  somehow  considered  a  danger- 
ous person,  at  least,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
and  so,  as  a  matter  of  course  again,  a  new  element 
was  added  to  her  interest.  To  her  there  seemed 


In  the  Red  Room.  185 

to  be  a  kind  of  fresh  but  unseen  bond  established 
between  them  from  this  fresh  circumstance.  After 
this  she  found  it  quite  impossible  to  make  a  fur- 
ther confidant  of  her  friend  Martha  —  to  tell  her, 
what  would  have  been  so  natural  under  other 
conditions,  the  new  fact  of  identification  which 
had  astonished  her  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Henry 
Carrique.  But  that  night,  when  the  guests  had 
all  departed,  and  Frank  was  putting  out  the  gas 
down  stairs,  Martha  came  into  Jenny's  room  for 
"  a  little  talk."  "  Well,  Jenny,  how  did  you  like 
my  favorite,  Tom  Carrique  ?  "  was  her  salutation, 
in  tones  of  suspicious  airiness. 

Jenny,  the  most  straightforward  of  mortals, 
drives  through  this  manoeuvre  at  one  plunge,  and 
with  a  spirit  which  Mrs.  Martha  cannot  mistake. 
"  I  liked  him  very  well,  Martha,  but  I  found  Mr. 
Henry  Carrique  much  more  interesting,  partly  be- 
cause I  saw  more  of  him,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say,  Henry  Carrique  can  make  him- 
self very  agreeable.  He  's  a  great  flirt,  you  know, 
or  at  least  people  say  so.  Nobody  ever  thought 
he  'd  marry,  until  last  year,  when  he  sent  home 
the  news  of  his  engagement.  He 's  acted  very 
strangely  about  it ;  did  from  the  first ;  but  he  's 
very  eccentric,  and  as  he  's  no  relative  nearer  than 
a  cousin,  nobody  has  any  particular  claim  upon  his 
confidence." 


186  In  the  Red  Room. 

Jenny  blushed  a  bright  red  at  this  information, 
but  more  from  the  vexation  that  always  assails  a 
person  of  quick  perception  when  they  discover  that 
they  are  being  indirectly  warned,  and  "  talked  at," 
than  from  any  other  feeling.  Never  very  prone  to 
restrain  that  quick  spirit  of  hers,  she  flashed  out 
here,  "  Thanks,  Martha,  for  your  good  intentions, 
but  I  don't  need  your  caution,  yet,  at  all  events  ; 
I  'm  not  in  love  with  Mr.  Henry  Carrique." 

Martha  colored  up.  the  color  of  the  red  room  it- 
self. "  Now,  Jenny,  that  is  so  like  you." 

"  So  like  me  to  see  straight  through  your  trans- 
parencies, Martha  —  I  know  that,"  laughed  Jenny. 
"  But  if  you  would  n't  beat  round  the  bush  with 
me,  Martha  ! " 

"  Yes,  if  I  'd  come  at  you  brutally,  and  say, 
*  Jenny  Merryweather,  Henry  Carrique  is  a  dan- 
gerous person,  and  in  my  opinion  will  fool  you  to 
the  top  of  his  bent,  and  then  go  off  and  marry 
that  girl  that  he  is  engaged  to,  and  leave  you  to 
wear  the  willow,'  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  'd  like  that  style  of  thing  ?  "  retorted  Martha, 
brought  to  bay. 

Thoroughly  restored  to  good  humor  by  this  out- 
burst, Jenny  replied,  gayly  :  — 

"  Like  it,  I  should  adore  that  style,  Mart ;  I 
always  like  people  to  hit  straight  out.  I  hate  any- 
body to  give  me  little  pokes  on  the  sly." 


In  the  Red  Room.  187 

Mart  laughed  in  return,  and  so  the  matter  passed 
over,  leaving  Mrs.  Carrique  feeling  as  if  she  had 
been  rather  ridiculously  premature,  not  only  in 
her  speech  but  her  fears.  But  the  next  day  when 
Henry  Carrique  walked  in  with  that  pleasant,  easy 
manner  of  his,  an  hour  or  so  before  Jenny's  de- 
parture, on  some  flimsy  errand  about  a  fan  he 
had  unwittingly  taken  away,  Mrs.  Martha  got  back 
more  than  her  original  fears  and  suspicions.  But 
she  would  checkmate  him  yet.  He  had  no  doubt 
come  with  the  design  of  accompanying  Jenny  to 
town  on  that  long  horse-car  ride,  which  would  take 
her  to  the  Eastern  station.  The  day  was  warm, 
the  roads  dusty,  and  Mrs.  Martha  had  a  head- 
ache, but  to  outwit  this  cool  fellow,  this  dangerous 
schemer,  she  would  gladly  sacrifice  herself ;  and  so 
when  Jenny  rose  to  take  her  departure,  Martha 
whipped  on  her  hat,  pinned  up  her  -pretty,  black 
grenadine  that  the  dust  spoiled,  and  announced 
that  sbe  had  concluded  to  go  in  to  town  with  her. 
For  a  moment  Jenny  was  "  unaware  "  of  the  "  situ- 
ation," and  out  of  her  honest  heart  protested  in  this 
wise.  "  Why,  Martha !  it  is  very  good  of  you,  and 
I  should  like  your  company,  but  you  can  't  get  back 
in  time  for  your  dinner  at  five,  you  know." 

"  I  intended  to  accompany  Miss  Merryweather, 
if  I  was  happy  enough  to  find  her  here,  that  is,  if 
she  would  permit  me,"  interposed  Henry  Carrique, 
in  the  most  matter-of-course  way. 


188  In  the  Red  Room. 

Mrs.  Martha  was  breathless  for  a  moment,  at 
this  very  easy  declaration  of  intentions.  How- 
ever, she  held  her  ground  very  neatly  by  impro- 
vising business  in  town,  and  the  clever  fiction  of 
her  husband's  probable  delay  on  this  special  after- 
noon. 

At  this  juncture,  Jenny,  biting  her  lip  to  conceal 
her  amusement,  met  a  look  from  Henry  Carrique's 
laughing  eyes,  that  seemed  to  establish  another 
little  link  in  the  bond  between  them;  and  when 
he  parted  from  her  at  the  Eastern  depot,  there  was 
a  merry  kind  of  intimate  acquaintance  in  their  man- 
ner which  poor  Mrs.  Carrique  little  suspected  re- 
sulted from  her  own  indiscreet  action. 

Going  home,  Jenny  Merryweather  had  now 
two  reasons  for  giving  Mr.  Henry  Carrique  the 
principal  place  in  her  thoughts.  One,  very  nat- 
urally resulted  from  the  odd  dream.  The  other, 
the  true  girl  reason  of  finding  great  interest  in 
what  she  had  been  specially  warned  against.  Mr. 
Henry  Carrique  also  found  himself  stimulated  to 
double  interest  for  the  same  reason,  which,  after 
all,  it  is  better  to  call  the  human  reason,  for  mas- 
culine as  well  as  feminine  perversity  develops 
equally  in  this  direction.  But  Mrs.  Frank,  dear 
soul,  received  no  light  upon  her  own  share  in  this 
business,  even  when  about  a  month  later  her  hus- 
band came  home  one  night  with  the  intelligence 


In  the  Red  Room.  189 

that  Cousin  Henry  had  joined  a  certain  boating- 
club  at  Balem,  and  that  gossip  had  it  that  he  was 
very  attentive  to  Miss  Jenny  Merryweather. 

"  I  shall  just  go  out  to  Balem  in  the  early  train 
to-morrow  morning,"  cried  Mrs.  Martha. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  look  out  how  you  meddle  with 
such  a  matter." 

"  I  shall  go  out  to  Balem  in  the  early  train  to- 
morrow morning,  and  do  my  duty.  I  know  Jenny 
better  than  you  do,  sir,  and  I  know  that  my  words 
will  weigh  with  her." 

"  If  it  was  n't  for  this  queer  engagement  of  his, 
't  would  be  all  right,"  remarked  Mr.  Carrique,  mus- 
ingly. 

"  What  ?  "  from  Mrs.  Martha,  in  accents  of  in- 
dignant amazement. 

The  gentleman  repeated  his  word. 

"And  you  can  say  that,  knowing  Henry  Car- 
rique to  be  such  an  unprincipled  flirt." 

It  was  now  Frank  Carrique's  turn  to  look 
amazed. 

"  An  unprincipled  flirt !  Henry  Carrique  !  Where 
did  you  get  that  idea,  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  Where  should  I  get  it  ?     From  you,  sir." 

"  Now,  Martha,  you  are  such  a  headlong  creat- 
ure. I  told  you  once  that  Henry  was  an  odd  fel- 
low, and,  though  very  attractive  to  women,  that  we 
did  n't  consider  him  a  marrying  man.  You  draw 


190  In  the  Red  Room. 

the  conclusion  from  that,  I  suppose,  that  he  is  a 
male  flirt.  But  he  is  nothing  so  contemptible.  He 
is  n't  even  much  of  a  society  man.  He  is  interest- 
ing to  men  as  well  as  to  women." 

Mrs.  Martha  was  silent  a  moment  from  a  little 
feeling  of  anger  towards  her  husband,  and  a  little 
mortification  likewise,  for  she  was  candid  enough 
to  know  that  her  imagination  sometimes  translated 
things  rather  vividly.  But  presently  she  says  tri- 
umphantly :  "If  this  is  the  case,  why  do  you  feel 
annoyed  about  your  news  ?  " 

"  For  the  very  simple  reason  that  Henry  may 
be  quite  unconscious  that  he  may  be  interesting 
Jenny  unduly.  His  joining  the  boating  club  is  n't 
strange,  for  he  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Dick  Otis, 
the  president." 

"  It 's  a  ladies'  and  gentlemen's  club,  is  n't  it,  and 
they  go  sailing  after  sunset,  by  moonlight,  and  to 
picnics,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  I  believe  they  do,  Mart,"  and  Frank  Carrique 
laughed. 

"  I  shall  go  out  to  Balem  in  the  early  train  to- 
morrow morning,  and  spend  the  day  with  Jenny, 
and  you  '11  come  out  for  me  in  the  afternoon,  sir." 

It  was  altogether  too  much  trouble  for  Frank 
Carrique  to  combat  this  positive  decision  ;  and  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  he  felt,  himself,  the  necessity  for 
some  sort  of  action  in  the  matter.  However  it 


In  the  Red  Room.  191 

may  have  been,  Mrs.  Carrique  took  her  own  way 
after  this  without  further  protest  from  her  hus- 
band ;  and  the  next  morning  astonished  Jenny 
Merry  weather  by  her  unexpected  appearance.  But 
Jenny  Merryweather  was  a  shrewd  little  person, 
as  lias  been  shown,  and  this  unexpected  appear- 
ance led  her  to  thinking  at  once ;  and  when  Mrs. 
Martha  began  to  approach  the  subject  of  boating 
parties  in  what  she  fondly  supposed  a  most  adroit 
manner,  Jenny  electrified  her  with :  — 

"  Kow,  Martha,  what  is  it  ?  You  have  n't  come 
all  the  way  to  Balem  without  a  special  purpose, 
and  you  might  as  well  out  with  it  at  once." 

Thus  it  was  that  Martha  Carrique  was  hurried 
into  instant  and  premature  confession  of  her  errand. 
But  Jenny  took  it  all  with  great  external  calmness. 
"  Odd,  you  call  him  odd,"  she  said,  hi  answer  to  one 
of  Martha's  statements  ;  u  I  don't  see  anything  odd 
about  him.  I  can  understand  him  very  well." 

Poor  Martha  drew  a  deeper  breath.  "  Jenny,  I 
hope  you  do  understand  him,  for  if  you  do  "  — 

"  Don't  say  disagreeable  things  about  Mr.  Car- 
rique, Martha.  He  is  my  friend,  nothing  more,  I 
assure  you.  But  he  is  my  friend ;  we  can  like  our 
friends  too  well  to  hear  them  attacked  unjustly, 
and  you  're  attacking  Mr.  Carrique  unjustly  when 
you  accuse  him  of  trifling  with  me.  He  has  been 
very  kind  and  courteous  to  me.  He  knew  from 
the  first  that  1  knew  of  his  engagement." 


192  In  the  Red  Room. 

Martha  could  say  no  more.  She  felt  now  that 
she  had  said  too  much  in  using  the  word  "  trifling  " 
as  she  had.  When  Frank  came  up  the  long,  old- 
fashioned  garden-path  that  night  she  hastened  to 
meet  him,  that  she  might  tell  him  the  fruitlessness 
of  her  errand.  Frank  was  generous  enough  not 
to  say  "  I  told  you  so  ;  I  knew  you  would  make  a 
mess  of  it,  my  dear." 

Jt  was  only  a  few  minutes  later  that  the  gentle- 
man who  was  the  hero  of  all  this  anxiety  and  com- 
motion walked  leisurely  up  the  same  garden-path. 
A  bright,  interested  look  came  into  Frank  Car- 
rique's  eyes ;  a  look  that  said  plainly :  "  Ah,  now 
I  shall  see  for  myself  what  everything  means." 
When  he  saw  the  expression  of  Jenny's  face,  on 
guard  as  the  poor  child  was ;  when  he  saw  Henry 
Carrique's  glance  and  smile  as  he  approached  her, 
he  felt  that  the  meaning  was  only  too  evident,  and 
that  meaning  under  the  circumstances  what  his 
wife  had  clearly  foreseen  and  apprehended.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Martha  was  nearer  right  in  her  sum- 
ming up  of  Henry  Carrique's  character  than  he  had 
been.  As  they  sat  there  together  on  the  wide  piazza, 
with  the  outward  appearance  of  harmony,  there 
was  what  Edward  Everett  Hale  would  have  called 
"  an  atmosphere  "  that  contradicted  this  apparent 
harmony.  Henry  Carrique  was  by  no  means  ob- 
tuse to  this  atmosphere,  and  remembering  Mrs. 


.In  the  Red  Room.  193 

Frank's  previous  efforts,  he  was  not  far,  perhaps, 
from  penetrating  its  cause.  A  little  ripple  of 
amusement  passed  audaciously  across  his  counte- 
nance, and  looking  seaward,  where  a  piled  up 
mass  of  heavy  clouds  was  rising,  he  said  lightly, 
"  There  's  thunder  in  the  air." 

A  flash  of  lightning  at  this  moment  sparkled  in 
Mrs.  Martha's  eyes.  She  had  seen  the  ripple  of 
amusement,  and  the  words  sounded  like  a  chal- 
lenge. Frank  himself  was  not  unmoved,  and  for 
the  instant  a  desire  to  do  or  say  something  to  the 
purpose  was  strong  within  him.  Suddenly,  as  it 
seemed,  the  opportunity  was  given  him.  The  wind 
had  risen  with  the  rising  of  the  clouds,  and  a  win- 
dow that  fronted  the  southeast  resisted  Jenny's  at- 
tempt at  closing.  Henry  Carrique  sprang  to  her 
assistance.  As  he  turned  back,  Frank  Carrique 
held  towards  him  a  small,  flat,  Russia  leather  case 
he  had  just  picked  up  from  the  floor.  The  corner 
was  torn  off  and  disclosed  a  portion  of  a  photo- 
graph of  a  woman's  head. 

"  Yours,  Henry  ?  " 

A  nod  of  thanks  and  that  same  audacious  smile 
again  from  Henry  Carrique. 

"  That  mysterious  sweetheart  of  yours,  Henry,  I 
suppose.  Come,  it  is  time  you  told  us  something 
further  about  her,  I  think." 

There  was  a  certain  roughness  in  Frank  Car- 
13 


194  In  the  Red  Room. 

rique's  voice,  despite  his  jocular  manner.  Martha 
saw  —  did  they  all  see  ?  —  the  sudden  pallor  of 
Jenny's  face  at  this.  Was  it  the  sight  of  that  pal- 
lor that  produced  such  a  change  in  Henry  Car- 
rique's  demeanor  ?  for  in  a  moment  his  gayety,  his 
lightness,  fled,  and  after  an  instant  of  hesitation  he 
seemed  to  come  to  a  sudden  resolution,  which  cost 
him  a  perceptible  effort,  an  effort  that  brought  a 
tinge  of  color  to  his  cheek  and  a  new  tone  into  his 
voice  as  he  spoke.  For  immediately  acting,  as  was 
evident,  upon  this  resolution,  he  moved  his  chair 
slightly  forward  and  began  :  — 

"  You  think  I  should  tell  you  something  further 
about  my  mysterious  sweetheart,  as  you  call  her. 
I  will  tell  you  all  that  I  know  myself.  About  a 
year  ago,  when  I  was  in  Munich,  I  received  a  let- 
ter from  Kate,  containing  her  usual  badinage  and 
speculation,  and  question,  about  my  prospect  of 
settling  in  life,  as  she  called  it.  She  said  she  had 
heard,  through  friends  in  Paris,  —  the  Heydons, 
you  know,  —  that  I  was  very  attentive  to  a  myste- 
rious young  Polish  girl  who  had  been  in  society 
for  a  short  time  in  Paris.  I  had  met  this  Polish 
girl  but  three  times,  as  it  happened,  and  knew  noth- 
ing more  about  her.  Just  after  I  had  finished  read- 
ing Kate's  letter,  I  remember  I  went  into  Johnny 
Carew's  studio.  He  was  a  student  in  Munich,  you 
know,  for  two  years.  On  his  easel,  as  I  went  in,  u 


In  the  Red  Room.  195 

picture  met  my  eyes  that  attracted  me,  for  two  rea- 
sons, the  beauty  of  the  face,  and  the  old-fashioned 
New  England  look  of  the  dress  which  the  figure 
was  arrayed  in.  It  was  a  copy  he  had  been  mak- 
ing, he  told  me,  of  an  old  miniature  he  had  brought 
with  him,  the  portrait  of  his  mother's  grand  aunt, 
Drusilla  Carew.  We  both  of  us  sat  down  before 
this  picture  and  examined  it  for  a  while  together, 
and  then  he  went  out  to  keep  an  engagement,  and 
I  sat  there  for  an  hour  to  wait  his  return,  and  all 
the  time  directly  in  front  of  the  portrait.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  I  was  thinking  of  the  portrait  all 
that  time :  I  was  thinking  of  a  hundred  other 
things ;  but  I  found  after  I  had  left  the  studio  the 
pictured  face  pursued  me.  I  know  I  went  to  a 
musical  party  where  I  met  several  distinguished 
artists,  but  through  the  talk  and  the  music,  and 
amidst  the  throng  of  very  pretty  women,  every 
now  and  then  I  would  see  in  my  mind's  eye,  as  we 
say,  Miss  Drusilla  Carew.  It  was  not  very  singu- 
lar then,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  see  the  young 
woman  again  in  my  dreams  that  night.  The  next 
day  I  went  into  Carew's  studio,  and  told  him  how 
his  ancestress  had  haunted  me.  He  laughed  and 
remarked  :  "  She  's  coming  back  to  atone  to  one  of 
your  family,  I  suppose,  for  her  perfidy  in  the  past." 
I  was  all  at  sea  at  this,  greatly  to  his  surprise,  for 
he  supposed,  he  said,  that  all  the  Carriques  knew 


196  In  the  Red  Room. 

the  old  family  traditions.  However,  I  heard  it 
then  and  there  for  the  first  time  from  his  lips,  tin- 
old  story  which  I  dare  say  you  know,  Frank,  that 
a  certain  Miss  Drusilla  Carew  broke  faith,  and 
broke  the  heart  of  a  Henry  Carrique  a  century 
ago,  or  at  any  rate  worked  a  good  deal  of  mischief 
with  his  life." 

Frank  nodded.  "Yes,  I  know  that  old  story, 
Henry,  but  what  connection  "  — 

"  Has  it  with  my  story  ?  It  is  the  very  root  of 
it,  as  you  '11  see,  if  you  have  patience.  Well,  to  go 
on :  after  Johnny  had  related  the  old  tradition  to 
me,  he  produced  several  photographs  that  he  had 
taken  of  his  portrait,  and  allowed  me  my  choice. 
Evidently,  he  declared,  Miss  Drusilla  had  some  in- 
terest in  me  from  thus  haunting  me,  and  it  was  but 
fair  that  I  should  possess  her  picture.  So  the  joke 
was  carried  on  by  his  inquiring,  when  we  met,  how 
my  phantom  sweetheart  was.  When  I  wrote  to 
Kate  directly  after  this,  the  matter  being  fresh  in 
my  mind,  I  carried  the  joke  along  by  telling  her 
that  at  last  I  had  met  my  fate,  but  as  all  things  were 
not  as  yet  satisfactorily  settled,  though  I  considered 
myself  an  engaged  man,  I  could  not  yet  tell  her  the 
lady's  name.  When  Johnny  Carew  wrote,  as  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  doing  now  and  then,  to  Kate's 
husband,  he  made  mysterious  mention  of  painting 
the  portrait  of  Henry  Carrique's  sweetheart.  So 


In  tie  Red  Room.  197 

you  can  see  what  a  fixed  matter  it  became  in  Kate's 
mind.  Of  course,  when  I  returned  I  intended  to 
confess  that  it  was  all  jest.  Well,  I  returned  in 
May,  as  you  know.  The  note  in  my  memorandum- 
book  is,  *  Landed  in  New  York,  May  23d.'  I  stayed 
in  New  York  two  or  three  days  before  I  came  on 
to  Boston.  The  second  night,  May  24th,  I  had 
a  curious  dream.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  in  your 
house,  Frank,  not  in  its  present  state,  but  as  it  was 
when  Grandmother  Carrique  lived  there,  the  old, 
unaltered  colonial  fashion.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
great  party  gathered  in  the  parlor,  and  I  was  the 
centre  of  it.  As  I  stood  there  a  young  girl  en- 
tered, whose  face  was  the  face  of  Drusilla  Carew, 
but  whose  costume  was  that  of  the  present  day. 
Then  I  noticed  that  all  the  rest  of  the  company 
were  dressed  in  the  old  Revolutionary  style.  Only 
myself  and  this  young  girl  were  in  the  nineteenth 
century  costume.  As  she  entered  I  suddenly  real- 
ized that  the  occasion  was  a  bethrotal  or  a  bridal, 
and  this  young  girl  and  myself  were  the  principal 
actors.  I  stepped  forward  eagerly  at  this,  preceded 
by  an  elegant  gentleman  who  was  the  image  of  old 
Colonel  Carrique,  as  he  is  represented  in  Stuart's 
picture.  But  at  this  movement  the  young  lady 
turned  abruptly  away,  and  presently,  after  a  few 
words  of  remonstrance  from  the  old  colonel,  she 
fled  incontinently,  followed  by  the  colonel  himself. 


198  In  the  Red  Room. 

The  dream  may  not  seem  impressive  to  you,  but  it 
made  an  odd  and  fixed  impression  upon  me.  Well, 
this  dream,  as  I  said,  occurred  on  the  24th  of  May. 
Three  days  after,  1  was  sitting  in  Tremont  Temple, 
listening  to  John  Weiss.  Suddenly  a  little  com- 
motion took  place  near  me  —  somebody  wanted  a 
fan ;  I  turned  and  saw  in  the  lady  who  held  the  fan 
the  image  of  Drusilla  Carew  and  of  my  dream !  I 
believe  I  may  have  been  very  rude  in  my  close  ob- 
servation, and  almost  pursuit  of  this  lady  ;  but —  I 
hope  she  has  forgiven  me  "  —  a  half  smile  here,  a 
quick  look  at  Jenny's  face,  —  Jenny's  face  which 
was  downcast  and  colorless,  but  which  with  wonder- 
ful self-command  showed  little  of  the  emotion  that 
was  agitating  her,  —  a  quick  look  as  quickly  with- 
drawn, and  then :  "  Three  days  or  nights  after  this  I 
went  out  to  your  place,  Frank,  to  an  evening  party, 
and  there  I  met  the  lady  of  my  dream,  the  image  of 
Drusilla  Carew,  and  she  was  dressed,  as  1  had  seen 
her  in  my  dream,  in  white  with  pink  roses."  He 
gave  another  quick  look  now  at  Jenny,  and  then 
drew  the  photograph  from  its  case.  "  Here,"  to 
Frank,  "  you  will  see  for  yourself  whose  face  this 
resembles." 

Frank  Carrique,  with  a  queer  smile  about  his 
mouth,  regarded  the  photograph. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is  not  so  much 
wonder.  Drusilla  Carew  was  Jenny  Merry  weath- 


In  the  Red  Room.  199 

er's  grand  aunt  also,  or  her  mother's.  If  Johnny 
Carew  had  n't  been  burrowing  off  there  in  Ger- 
many this  half  dozen  years,  he  might  have  told  you 
that  there  was  a  flesh  and  blood  fac-simile  of  the 
old  picture  down  here  in  Balem  in  a  small  cousin 
of  his.  But  Johnny's  story  has  another  gap  in  it. 
Drusilla,  poor  soul,  did  n't  break  Henry  Carrique's 
heart,  but  got  her  own  broken  instead.  It  was  a 
made  up  match  between  the  families,  and  upon 
Miss  Drusilla  rebelling  they  shut  her  up  in  a  cer- 
tain red  room  in  the  Carrique  mansion  —  she  was 
a  ward  of  the  old  colonel's,  and  an  inmate  of  the 
house  until  her  majority.  And  here  they  threat- 
ened and  persecuted  the  young  woman  until  she 
went  into  a  decline  and  died  there.  And  ever  since 
then  there  has  been  a  story  that  at  certain  times, 
and  to  certain  persons,  these  remote  people  appear 
and  go  through  some  of  their  disreputable  old  pranks 
of  threatening  and  persecution.  I  always  thought 
this  a  great  piece  of  humbug,  and  I  do  now,  but  I 
must  own,  Jenny,  that  all  this  dream  business  of 
yours  and  Henry's  is  as  pretty  a  piece  of  coinci- 
dence as  anything  I  ever  heard  of.  They  did  ap- 
pear to  Jenny,  you  know,  in  a  dream,  Henry,  and  — 
but  I  'm  not  going  to  stay  to  tell  you  that.  It 's 
time  we  were  on  our  way  if  we  are  going  to  drive 
home  to-night,  Mart.  The  storm  is  over,  you  see, 
and  I  '11  bring  the  horse  round."  In  the  little  in- 


200  In  the  Red  Room. 

terval  of  "  bringing  the  horse  round,"  Henry  Car- 
rique  was  wise  enough  to  ask  no  questions,  but  aft- 
erwards when  he  found  himself  alone  with  Drusilla 
Carew's  grand  niece,  he  asked  one  question,  in  the 
answer  of  which  Jenny  Merryweather  gave  up  all 
the  secrets  of  her  heart,  all  the  queer  dreams  of 
this  strange  summer,  —  gave  them  up  forever  into 
the  keeping  of  her  dream's  hero,  and  thus  perhaps 
laid  the  restless  ghost  of  the  red  room  forever ;  for 
it  is  another  queer  fact  in  this  queer  history,  that 
from  that  time,  from  the  moment  of  Jenny  Merry- 
weather's  betrothal  to  Henry  Carrique,  there  was 
nothing  further  ever  heard  from  the  red  room ; 
nobody's  dreams  were  ever  disturbed  by  a  sight  of 
old  lady  Carrique's  vindictive  visage,  or  Colonel 
Carrique's  blandly  cruel  face. 

"  It  is  a  fact,  you  know,  it  is  a  fact,  Frank,  that 
lots  of  people  have  been  worried  by  that  old  colo- 
nel and  his  godless  old  mother  when  they  've  slept 
in  the  red  room.  There  was  Johnny  Carew,  and 
Tom  and  Mary,  and  all  the  Bartletts  had  a  sight 
of  'em,  and  now  the  old  thing  is  done  with,  and 
anybody,  Carew  or  Carrique,  can  sleep  the  sleep  of 
the  just  there.  You  may  pooh  pooh,  and  talk  till 
you  're  blind,  Frank,  but  there  is  the  fact !  "  Thus 
Mrs.  Frank  Carrique,  in  answer  to  her  skeptical 
husband.  But  skeptical  as  Frank  Carrique  is,  he 
can  never  explain  quite  to  his  own  matter-of-fact 


In  the  Red  Room.  201 

satisfaction  the  odd  coincidence  of  those  "  duplicate 
dreams,"  as  he  calls  them.  It  is  a  subject,  however, 
that  he  generally  avoids,  but  when  drawn  into  it  in 
family  conclave  he  disclaims  all  knowledge  of  de- 
tails, and  has  latterly  been  known  to  term  the 
whole  history,  "  One  of  my  wife's  stories." 

Henry  Carrique,  with  a  less  contracted  and  per- 
haps more  courageous  intellect,  is  quite  willing  to 
take  Shakespeare's  view,  that  "  there  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in 
our  philosophy ; "  but  his  little  wife,  with  her 
Scotch  ancestry,  beats  them  all  with  her  belief  and 
unbelief.  She  scouts  at  Frank's  "  timid  scoffing," 
as  she  calls  it ;  is  entirely  unbelieving  in  the  theory 
of  coincidence  ;  and  believes,  as  implicitly  as  Grand- 
mother McKay  ever  could  have  done,  that  she  and 
her  husband  were  brought  together  by  the  ghosts 
of  the  red  room. 


NANNIE  0." 


I  HE  RE  she  is,  looking  straight  down  at  us 
with  those  frank,  brown  eyes. 
"  No,  they  are  black !  " 

Begging  your  pardon,  they  are  brown  —  hazel 
brown.  I  ought  to  know,  for  I  have  met  their  rays 
these  thirteen  years  —  ever  since  I  began  to  thiuk 
and  speculate.  Hazel  hair  too  ;  that  prettiest  and 
oddest  combination  —  eyes  and  hair  to  match.  You 
can  see  the  color  in  the  curls  there,  running  out 
over  her  neck ;  how  could  she  ever  roll  it  back 
and  submit  to  that  powdering  process?  Yet  it's 
pretty.  The  forehead  shows  its  clear  brunette  tan, 
the  cheeks  their  rose,  "  the  mouth  of  your  own 
geraniums  red,"  in  brighter  contrast  for  those  soft 
white  puffs  above  them.  There 's  nothing  else  so 
different  from  to-day.  That  blue  silk  is  fashionable 
like  your  own,  my  lady  —  a  square  corsage;  and 
the  neck  is  as  white  as  yours,  and  the  shoulders 
shaped  as  finely.  Yet  she  lived  almost  a  century 
ago. 

No  wonder  you  say,  "  Oh,  that  those  lips  had  Ian- 


Nannie   0."  203 


their  "  own  geraniums  red,"  like  a  bee  into  a  rose, 
yearning  to  have  some  fairy,  waft  her  down  with 
her  wrand  from  that  painted  enchantment,  and  see 
her  step  stately  in  hoop  and  farthingale  along  the 
gallery.  I  call  it  a  gallery,  though  it  's  only  a 
wide  hall,  with  no  grandeur  of  fresco  or  carving  ; 
but  it  is  hung  with  these  old  family  portraits  — 
from  end  to  end.  If  my  father  had  a  passion  in 
the  world,  it  was  for  collecting  these  painted  sem- 
blances of  his  race ;  and  here  they  are,  a  motley 
assemblage  enough,  "  peace  to  their  ashes."  Here 
they  are  —  man,  matron,  and  maid,  soldiers,  priests, 
and  scholars  ;  and  one  or  two  with  a  ribbon  across 
their  broad  breasts,  starred,  and  otherwise  orna- 
mented with  signs  of  a  foreign  service.  Courtly 
looking  cavaliers,  in  good  sooth,  with  faces  that  re- 
mind you  of  those  young  French  heroes  whose  pict- 
ures are  scattered  all  through  the  history  of  Napo- 
leon. These  are  my  favorites  ;  but  my  father  was 
fonder  of  "  My  Nannie  O  "  than  all  the  rest. 

"  How  came  she  by  that  title  ?  " 

Wait.  I  will  let  her  tell  her  own  story.  Here 
is  her  diary — written  with  her  own  hand  —  that 
hand  whose  perfect  copy  clasps  the  great  fan  of 
pheasant  feathers  there.  Just  think,  my  lady,  while 
you  wave  and  flirt  that  little  sandal-wood  bijou,  of 
the  cunning  dexterity  those  other  small,  fair  fingers 


204  "My  Nannie   0." 

must  have  exerted  in  the  management  of  that  enor- 
mous thing.  Yet,  as  Domenichino  said  of  his  early 
paintings,  "  It  is  not  so  bad  after  all."  You  per- 
ceive how  the  baby  proportions  of  the  hand  are 
enhanced  by  its  effort  to  compass  the  fan's  bulky 
size,  and  how,  in  the  stately  movements,  the  soft, 
plumy  tips  would  waft  like  some  sunset  cloud  be- 
tween the  lovely  girl  and  her  adorers.  I  am  not 
sure,  my  lady,  but  she  had  the  best  of  it.  Behind 
this  screen  of  defense,  what  chances  she  held  of 
carrying  on  a  prolonged  siege,  wherein  her  coy  re- 
sistance was  charmingly  relieved  by  a  bright  glance, 
or  a  blush  now  and  then  flashing  out  through  the 
plumy  pheasant  feathers,  and  setting  the  suitor's 
heart  in  a  flame,  to  be  quenched  and  fired  again  by 
the  same  tantalizing  process  !  What  can  you  do, 
mia  cara,  with  that  pretty  toy?  You  lean  your 
pretty  chin  upon  it  in  pretty  attitudes,  it  is  true  ; 
you  tap  it  lightly  against  those  milky  pearls,  which 
stand  in  rows  there  between  your  scarlet  lips ;  you 
mockingly  raise  it  before  your  face  in  a  playful 
threat ;  but  "  My  Nannie  O  "  had  but  to  turn  her 
slim  wrist,  and  build  a  wall  between  herself  and 
the  sighing  swain.  Almost  a  century  ago  !  What 
a  long,  long  time  ! 

"  And  did  she  live  to  lose  that  dimpled  smooth- 
ness, that  bonny  brown  hair,  that  rose-geranium 
color?" 


"  My  Nannie   0."  205 

No  ;  that  is  the  best  of  it.  There  is  no  bowed 
figure,  and  wrinkled  face,  and  silver  hair,  that  once 
bloomed  eighty  years  ago,  and  called  itself  "  My 
Nannie  O."  No,  — 

"  Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead." 

And  she  is  always  beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  now 
to  us. 

Eighty  years  ago,  then,  she  was  twenty  —  a  rose 
in  bloom.  Eighty  years  ago  that  fair  hand  first  be- 
gan to  pen 

HER    DIARY. 

June  10,  1795. 

To-day  I  am  twenty  years  old,  and  to-day  I  prom- 
ised to  begin  a  diary  —  a  daily  diary  to  the  end  of 
my  life.  The  end  of  my  life  !  It  makes  me  shiver  ! 
I  wonder  when  I  shall  die  !  and  1  am  so  afraid  of 
that  thing  called  Death  —  that  thing  !  Yes,  an 
actual  presence.  Dr.  Parker  says  I  must  be  very 
wicked  to  feel  so ;  and  if  I  don't  repent  and  love 
the  Lord,  that  I  shall  go  to  hell.  His  words  are 
mere  words  —  nothing  more  to  me.  "  Repent  and 
love  the  Lord  !  "  He  talks  as  if  I  had  only  to  will 
repentance  and  love.  Let  us  see  ;  what  have  I  to 
repent  of?  Last  night,  in  dancing  with  Mr.  Glan- 
cey,  I  let  my  glove  fall,  and  when  he  picked  it  up  so 
gallantly,  and  asked  to  keep  it,  I  pretended  a  great 
deal  of  propriety,  and  demanded  it  back  again,  when 


206  "My  Nannie   0." 

I  did  n't  care  a  pin  for  it.  Indeed,  to  tell  the  whole 
honest  truth,  which  I  will  do  in  this  diary,  because 
it  is  between  my  soul  and  I,  I  would  n't  care  for 
his  keeping  it  provided  he  had  stolen  it  —  't  was  a 
pretty  glove,  and  shaped  to  a  pretty  hand !  In  this, 
then,  I  have  acted  a  lie ;  and  I  ought  to  repent  of 
lies.  I  wonder  what  Tom's  wife  would  say  ;  I  '11 
ask  her.  She 's  very  decorous  and  very  strict.  I 
shall  ask  her,  —  "  Jane,  what  should  I  have  replied 
to  Mr.  Glancej ,  when  he  picked  up  my  glove  in  the 
dance  the  other  night,  and  asked  to  keep  it  ? " 
Jane  will  look  at  me  in  silent  amazement  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  she  will  answer,  "  Why,  '  No,'  of 
course  !  "  "  What,  when  I  would  rather  he  would 
have  it  than  not  ?  Would  n't  that  be  a  lie,  Jane  ?  " 
Then  how  she  will  talk  to  me.  I  "  must  be  very 
corrupt  to  feel  so  ! "  I  am  not  corrupt !  I  am 
only  natural.  When  he  picked  up  the  glove  and 
asked  for  it,  the  thought  came,  quick  as  a  flash, 
that  it  was  a  pretty  thing  for  him  to  ask,  and  that 
it  would  be  a  pretty  reminder  of  me.  Then  another 
flash  brought  up  all  the  Sister  Janes  and  the  Aunt 
Prudences,  and  I  answered  "  No  !  "  Eh  !  but  what 
did  the  naughty  Nannie  do'  next?  She  gave  him 
the  flower  that  had  lain  on  her  neck  through  the 
evening ;  and  when  he  kissed  the  flower  and  said, 
"  Happy  flower,  who  does  not  envy  thee  ?  "  she 
made  him  a  sweeping  courtesy,  and  sent  him  a 


"My  Nannie    0."  207 

laughing  response  very  softly,  so  that  the  Sister 
Janes  and  the  Aunt  Prudences  could  n't  hear  ! 

French  women  do  these  things,  Jane  will  tell 
me,  and  French  women  are  coquettes.  Well,  but 
then  I  came' honestly  enough  by  it,  Sister  Jane. 
There  is  blood  of  the  ancien  regime  in  my  veins, 
you  know.  Viscount  Chastellux,  who  came  over 
in  the  French  fleet,  was  mamma's  brother,  dear ; 
that 's  his  portrait  over  the  fire-place  in  mamma's 
room,  you  remember.  He  named  me,  too  ;  and 
they  say  I  look  like  him  —  have  his  nose  and  his 
hair.  Only  think  —  that  splendid  young  officer  ! 
I  am  so  vain  of  it  my  head  is  quite  turned. 

There,  I  had  forgotten  that  I  was  to  confess  my 
sins  here  on  this  white  paper.  Good  little  page, 
I  '11  call  thee  a  white-robed  priest.  That 's  it  — 
I  '11  turn  Catholic  just  quietly  here,  and  tell  my 
beads  on  that  pearl  necklace  De  Gremont  gave  me. 
Now,  down  on  your  knees,  Nannie,  to  confession ! 

Firstly,  I  have  told  a  lie.  Secondly,  I  stayed  away 
from  church  last  Sabbath  because  my  new  bonnet 
was  n't  done.  Thirdly,  I  got  into  a  passion  with 
Hannah  for  putting  powder  on  my  hair  when  I  told 
her  not,  and  boxed  her  ears.  That 's  a  pretty  story 
to  tell  my  lovers,  eh  ?  I  know  some  of  my  sweet 
sex  who  would  relish  the  telling,  though.  Fourthly, 
after  making  beaux  yeux  at  young  Parson  Leigh- 
ton,  I  refused  him  flatly  yesterday.  Fifthly,  I  went 


208  "My  Nannie   0." 

out  on  Tuesday  with  my  young  brother  John,  and 
gave  him  the  slip  while  he  stopped  to  watch  the 
man  with  the  puppet-show;  and  just  at  that  time 
Mr.  Glancey,  whom  papa  does  not  favor,  came  up 
with  me,  and  we  went  out  on  the  old  road  for  a 
walk,  and  did  n't  get  back  for  two  hours  or  more. 
Sixthly,  when  papa  found  this  out  by  little  John, 
and  reproved  me  with  sharpness,  I  swept  him  a 
saucy  courtesy,  and  reminded  him  that  I  should 
never  demean  my  old  French  blood  :  his  first  mar- 
riage, before  he  ever  saw  mamma,  was  a  mesalliance 
with  one  of  the  provincial  bourgeoisie.  Seventhly, 
on  going  out  of  the  room  I  encountered  little  John 
and  scolded  him  for  tale-bearing,  shaming  him  into 
tears  and  indignant  denials.  Whereupon  I  told 
him  that  he  should  die  in  silence,  if  he  would  be  a 
gentleman,  rather  than  to  tell  secrets ;  and  I  have 
treated  him  very  cruelly  since.  Eighthly,  I  refused 
to  ride  with  Mr.  Edward  Overing  yesterday  morn- 
ing because  he  chose  to  give  me  some  advice  about 
my  conduct  on  the  night  of  the  ball,  telling  him  I 
wished  there  would  be  another  revolution,  that  we 
might  see  specimens  of  gentlemen  here  in  America 
such  as  my  mother  remembers,  and  telling  him  vari- 
ous savage  things  that  I  '11  warrant  spoilt  his  sleep 
that  night.  Ninthly,  when  my  mother  asked  me 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Overing's  this  afternoon  with  the 
apple-jelly  for  little  Sally,  who  has  the  measles,  I 


"  My  Nannie   0."  209 

answered  "  No ! "  very  unbecomingly,  and  said  I 
was  tired  of  the  Overings,  and  would  n't  wait  on 
them  any  longer.  There  was  no  one  else  to  go 
then,  and  I  saw  her  set  out  herself  without  a  word. 
Here  's  a  list  for  you,  good  priest.  Which  do 
I  repent?  Which?  Hear  that!  Well,  I  don't 
repent  giving  Mr.  Glancey  the  flower,  nor  the 
courtesy ;  but  about  the  lie  ?  Oh,  I  'm  repenting 
that  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  !  And  I  don't  feel 
very  bacf  about  my  bonnet  sin,  though  I  suppose 
that  it  is  because  I  am  so  wicked.  But  I  am  sorry 
I  boxed  Hannah's  ears,  for  it  was  not  becoming  a 
gentlewoman ;  and  Hannah  is  a  good  girl,  though 
she  tries  my  temper  with  her  forgetfulness.  Then 
I  am  not  sorry  I  refused  Parson  Leighton,  for  I 
did  n't  want  him,  and  I  could  n't  help  making 
beaux  yeux  at  him  any  more  than  I  could  help 
breathing ;  for  he  has  beaux  yeux  himself  without 
the  making,  and  he  is  forever  following  me  about. 
And  I  don't  repent  walking  with  Mr.  Glaucey, 
though  papa  frowns  on  him.  He  is  a  gentleman, 
though  he  is  a  gay  British  soldier,  and  a  second 
son  ;  but  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  up  to  papa  as  I  did  — 
that  was  mean  and  cowardly  in  me  to  reflect  upon 
his  poor  young  wife,  whom  he  married  for  love, 
and  who  died  so  soon.  And  I  am  sorry  I  treated 
little  Johnny  so  cruelly,  for  the  lad  is  far  better 
than  I,  and  loves  me  more  than  anybody  or  any- 
14 


210  "My  Nannie   0" 

thing,  save  his  romantic  notions  of  right  and  truth. 
As  for  refusing  to  ride  with  Mr.  Edward  Overing, 
I  am  not  repenting  much.  He,  to  set  himself  up 
as  my  adviser !  For  my  last  offense,  I  repent  most 
heartily  and  honestly,  and  long  to  lay  it  all  to  the 
door  of  his  high  mightiness,  Edward  Overing;  for 
if  he  had  but  held  his  peace,  I  should  never  have 
answered  my  sweet  mamma  so  rudely,  and  allowed 
her  to  go  through  the  hot  sun  on  that  tedious  walk. 
My  sweet  mamma,  who  never  said  a  sharp  word  to 
her  disobedient,  disrespectful  daughter.  But  I  am 
to  put  it  all  down  to  my  hot  temper  —  my  fiery 
Chastellux  blood.  I  know  there  is  no  use  in  ex- 
cuses. I  will  have  no  shoulders  but  my  own  to 
bear  this  sin.  To-morrow  I  will  do  penance.  I 
will  scourge  my  willful  spirit  by  spending  the 
whole  day  in  mamma's  service  ;  and  it  is  house- 
cleaning  day,  so  it  will  be  bitter  scourging  enough, 
for  I  hate  the  whole  thing. 

So  endeth  the  first  lesson  of  my  diary ;  sOj  good 
little  priest,  I  have  knelt  at  thy  confessional. 
Bless  me  in  the  name  of  my  godfather,  who  be- 
lieved in  the  holy  Catholic  Church,  the  saints  and 
the  martyrs. 

Saturday,  1795 

Well,  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  I  prophesied  the 
very  words.  u  You  must  be  very  corrupt  to  feel  in 
this  way."  Yet  they  moved  me  as  if  unexpected. 


"My  Nannie    0."  211 

Oh  Jane!  Jane!  in  your  cold,  unnatural  presence 
I  feel  so  spelled  with  evil  that  I  can  never  talk 
freely.  But  what  matter  ?  She  would  not  com- 
prehend if  I  did.  And  yet  she  is  like  most  of  the 
women  one  sees  —  so  artificial,  so  afraid  to  evince 
emotion.  Even  my  kind,  good  Mary,  Henry's  wife, 
looked  quite  shocked  at  me  one  day  when  I  told  her 
I  hoped  that  I  should  marry  a  man  I  loved  some- 
time ;  and  more  than  that,  as  I  declared  that  I 
liked  the  society  of  the  other  sex  so  much.  So  do 
all  women  —  the  little  hypocrites  ! 

"  Corrupt !  "  how  the  word  follows  me  —  how 
it  angers  me.  My  cheek  flames,  and  yet  I  know 
it  is  a  corrupt  estimate.  Yes,  a  corrupt  estimate  ! 
Jane  is  a  type  of  most  of  the  girls  I  know.  There 
are  the  Eldons,  the  Drakes,  and  the  Cartrights  — 
how  they  talk  of  proprieties  !  —  how  they  turn  up 
their  noses  (Liz  Drake's  is  such  a  pug)  at  some 
poor  sinner  of  their  sex,  whose  steps  have  wan- 
dered out  of  their  track  !  I  scared  them  most  to 
death  one  day  by  reading  a  translation  I  made  of 
La  Magdalene.  If  I  had  n't  been  Judge  M'Lean's 
daughter  they  would  have  flouted  me  —  me,  Nannie 
Chastellux  M'Lean.  As  it  was,  Miss  Miriam  El- 
don  relieved  her  mind  by  a  long  rigmarole  without 
rhyme  or  reason,  on  and  concerning  the  sphere  of 
woman.  Then  what  did  they  do  ?  They  fell  to 
scandalizing  poor  little  Mrs.  De  Croix.  Such 


212  "My  Nannie   0." 

things  as  they  told  —  things  that  I  would  blush  to 
repeat ;  and  they  relished  the  telling.  Jane  was 
present,  and  she  joined  in  the  cry  !  She  liked  it 
too  !  A  madness  seized  me  then.  I  broke  out  in 
a  storm  of  indignant  passion  at  them.  I  told  them 
their  minds  were  fouller  than  many  a  lost  sinner's 
life:  that  I,  who  could  translate  La  Magdalene, 
would  scorn  to  talk  with  my  own  sex  what  I  would 
blush  for  men  to  hear.  Oh,  how  my  fiery  Chastel- 
lux  blood  ran  over.  I  exult  to  think  of  it.  They 
were  so  frightened  they  turned  pale,  but  they  never 
answered  me  —  no,  not  a  word.  I  conquered,  as 
truth  and  right  must  in  the  end.  I  came  off  vic- 
torious with  the  tri-colored  flag  of  justice,  loyaute, 
et  charite  !  Huzza !  Vive  la  Charite  f 

Wednesday,  1796. 

'.  This  morning  I  sat  to  Mr.  Allston  for  my  por- 
trait. Papa  and  Mr.  Malbone  came  in  in  the 
midst  of  the  sitting,  which  relieved  me,  for  I  was 
fast  getting  into  a  fidget ;  for,  as  papa  truly  says, 
I  do  not  relish  sitting  still,  or  in  one  place  long. 
Mr.  Malbone  came  and  looked  over  Mr.  Allston's 
shoulder  at  Mr.  Allston's  request,  for  they  are  fa- 
mous friends ;  and  I  heard  him  say  :  — 

'*  What  a  prophetic  look  you  have  put  into  the 
eyes ;  where  did  you  find  that  lurking  sadness  ?  " 
**  Where,  indeed  ?  "  and  Mr.  Allston  suspended  his 


.     "My  Nannie   0."  213 

brush  to  look  at  me  —  a  perplexed  expression 
crossed  his  face,  and  he  seemed  disturbed.  Then 
Mr.  Malbone  came  and  stood  beside  me,  and  began 
telling  me  of  our  dear,  delightful  old  Newport  — 
told  me  strange  and  wild  traditions,  till  I  got  to 
thinking,  I  remember,  of  a  story  mamma  once  re- 
lated to  us  all  when  we  were  children ;  a  story  of 
how  my  uncle  Chastellux  was  once  thrown  upon  a 
curious  old  island  not  unlike  our  Newport — though 
it  was  in  the  south  of  France,  and  of  a  picture  he 
brought  away  —  a  picture  of  a  lovely  court  dame, 
who  was  banished  for  some  suspected  treason  from 
the  kingdom  to  this  little,  quaint  island  city,  and 
who  pined  and  pined  for  her  native  land,  till  at 
last,  grown  desperate  and  crazed,  she  took  her  life 
into  her  own  hands,  arid  when  one  morning  my 
uncle  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  her,  he  found  the 
house  in  great  commotion  and  the  lady  lying  in 
state.  An  old  servant  put  a  package  into  his 
hands,  addressed  in  a  woman's  handwriting  to  him. 
In  it  he  found  the  painted  likeness  of  herself,  and 
a  touching  farewell,  wherein  she  thanked  him  for 
his  friendly  offices.  The  likeness  was  one  he  had 
often  seen  her  occupied  upon,  —  one  that  she  had 
painted  herself,  —  and  the  last  touch  had  been  given 
but  a  few  hours  before  the  rash  act  which  terminated 
her  existence.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  it  was 
the  eyes  that  had  received  the  latest  touch,  for 


214  "My  Nannie   0." 

in  their  mystical  depths  he  recognized  a  wild, 
prophetic  light  he  had  never  seen  before.  So 
strangely  and  powerfully  did  this  impress  him, 
that  my  mother  said  that  he  never  looked  at  the 
picture  without  an  inward  shudder  and  devoutly 
crossing  himself,  gay  soldier  and  brave  man  though 
he  was.  Papa  was  displeased  that  mamma  had 
told  us  this  story  —  he  did  not  like  for  us  to  get 
such  wild  notions  in  our  minds,  he  said. 

I  was  thinking  of  all  this,  as  I  sat  there,  when  I 
was  aroused  by  an  exclamation  of  Mr.  Allston's, 
"  Look  at  her  now,  Edward  !  "  And  I  glanced 
up  to  see  Mr.  Malbone  regarding  me  earnestly. 
"  There,  you  see  where  I  got  the  prophetic 
look ! " 

Papa  came  forward  from  the  window  where  he 
had  been  reading  a  letter,  and  surveyed  the  por- 
trait :  u  My  dear,  of  what  were  you  thinking  awhile 
ago?"  I  told  him  readily,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  a  heavy  frown  settle  over  his  face,  and  he  ut- 
tered his  usual  word  when  vexed,  — 

'*  Pshaw  !  "  and  then,  "  That  childish  story  has 
frightened  her  ;  get  that  look  off,  Mr.  Allston,  or 
I  shall  not  know  my  brave  Nan."  '•  I  must  take 
another  sitting  for  it ;  she  is  too  fatigued  now,  said 
Mr.  Allston."  And  thus  it  was  arranged  that  I 
should  go  again  the  next  day,  which  is  to-morrow. 

Mr.  Malbone  promised  me  to  finish  his  story  of 


"  My  Nannie   0."  215 

Newport  sometime,  if  I  would  tell  him  mine  —  the 
one  to  which  I  alluded  to  papa.  "  He  is  a  nice 
youth,  but  very  young  —  too  young  for  you,  my 
gay  little  coquette  ;  so  don't  be  turning  the  boy's 
brain  with  those  arch  glances,"  Mr.  Allston  whis- 
pered as  I  went  out.  That 's  the  way  they  go 
on.  I  can't  say  a  civil  thing  to  a  young  gentle- 
man but  I  am  trying  to  turn  his  brain.  It 's  all 
in  my  blood  —  this  fiery,  Chastellux  blood,  that 
sparkles  and  foams  like  wine  —  so  what  can  I  do  ? 
What  do  I  care  ?  Yes,  what  do  I  care  ?  I  am  free 
—  free  as  God  made  me.  Will  I  sell  my  birth-right 
for  a  mess  of  pottage  ?  for  it  comes  to  that,  this 
putting  rein  and  check  on  word  and  look  and  mo- 
tion, and  perpetually  acting  a  lie  as  Jane  and  the 
rest  of  them  do.  No,  never  ! 

"  She  would  not  dare  say  such  things  if  she  were 
other  than  she  is  —  if  she  were  not  Judge  M'Lean's 
daughter."  I  overheard  that  sly  snake,  Sue  Cart- 
right,  say  this  to  Hannah  Carroll  yesterday.  Thank 
my  stars  I  'm  Judge  M'Lean's  daughter  then  !  And 
Hannah,  dear,  kind  little  Hannah,  defends  me,  and 
tells  my  saintly  Susan  I  am  not  so  much  to  blame, 
for  I  was  actually  educated  in  a  convent  —  a 
French  convent !  What  would  papa  say  to  that, 
I  wonder ! 

Ah,  but  I  yearn  for  la  belle  France  ;  for  the 
gay  streets,  the  assemblers,  and  the  warm  hearts. 


216  "My  Nannie   0." 

I  am  only  half  American.  I  cannot  get  used  to 
their  cold,  stiff  ways  ;  they  are  like  their  cold, 
chilly  climate.  I  shrink  and  shudder  under  the 
influence  of  both.  Ah,  it  is  very  triste  here,  very 
triste  ! 

Hark !  what  is  that  ?  A  guitar.  Who  plays  a 
guitar  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  can  it  be  De  Gremont ! 

Wednesday,  1795. 

A  whole  week  since  I  wrote  here  last.  How 
irregular  I  am !  Ah  Ciel,  how  perplexed  one 
gets  trying  to  think  in  two  ways !  Ah,  that  I 
had  never  left  la  belle  France ;  that  I  had  re- 
mained with  ma  grande  mere  ! 

But  I  shall  never  make  a  proper  diary  in  this 
way.  Where  did  I  leave  off  —  a  week  since  ?  I 
stiall  begin  on  Thursday  then,  the  day  I  went  to 
Mr.  Allston  —  what  am  I  thinking  of  ?  Shall  I 
forget  the  strains  of  the  guitar  that  moved  me  so 
strangely  ?  I  knew  it  could  be  no  other  than  De 
Gremont,  and  I  sat  spell-bound.  I  could  scarcely 
credit  my  ears  ;  but  when  I  heard  that  low,  sweet 
song  of  Burns's  he  always  sung  to  me,  — 

"  And  I  '11  awa'  to  Nannie  0," 

my  heart  gave  one  great  bound  and  I  wept.  He  had 
come  away  from  sunny  France,  away  from  the  grand 
court,  the  palaces,  and  the  people  of  his  name  for 


"My  Nannie    0."  217 

me.  In  that  moment  I  had  forgot  that  I  had 
promised  papa  but  yesterday  to  retract  my  refusal 
to  young  Parson  Leight.on.  I  forgot  that  I  had 
even  fancied,  myself,  that  I  liked  the  young  man  ; 
for  in  that  moment  I  knew  that  but  one  love,  but 
one  passion,  would  ever  have  possession  of  my 
heart ;  that  the  love  I  had  thought  time  and  ab- 
sence had  stifled  was  only  sleeping  ;  that  De  Gre- 
mont  was  my  destiny  ;  and  I  must  give  him  some 
sign.  What  ?  A  happy  idea  came  to  me ;  I 
caught  my  guitar  —  the  very  guitar  he  had  given 
me  in  France  —  and  began  playing  that  sweet  old 
melody  from  Favart's  Opera.  I  did  not  dare  to 
sing,  but  he  knew  the  words  well :  — 

"  Though  young  and  yet  untaught, 

New  feelings  sway  me  now  ; 
This  love  I  never  sought, 
It  came  I  know  not  how." 

As  I  ceased  he  took  up  the  strain  and  gave  me 
that  tenderest  of  all  songs  :  — 

"Ma  mie 

Ma  douce  amie, 
Rdponds  a  mes  amours, 

Fidele 

A  cette  belle 
Je  1'aimerai  toujours." 

Then  I  heard  his  retreating  footsteps,  and  I  sat 
there  quite  still  till  they  had  entirely  ceased. 


218  "  My  Nannie   0." 

And  he  knew  me  well  —  he  did  not  linger :  ah, 
he  knows  everything  so  well  —  all  the  little  nice 
shades  of  delicacy  and  courtly  breeding.  There  is 
none  like  him  here,  not  one ;  and  I  thought  he  had 
forgotten  me  perhaps.  And  now  he  has  come  to 
seek  me.  Will  papa  frown  upon  him  or  smile? 
The  French  are  our  friends  surely,  —  the  friends  of 
America,  —  then  De  Gremont  has  princely  blood, 
a  noble  lineage.  He  is  not  very  rich,  but  papa  is 
not  sordid. 

These  thoughts,  I  remember,  passed  like  light- 
ning through  my  mind,  and  all  night  they  kept 
with  me  in  my  dreams.  In  the  morning  I  awoke 
with  a  new  feeling.  Life  was  no  longer  stale,  no 
longer  triste  here.  While  I  had  been  sighing  for 
la  belle  France  more  than  its  kingdom  had  come 
to  me! 

I  dressed  myself  with  unusual  care,  for  I  knew 
not  at  what  hour  he  would  present  himself.  I  had 
many  fears  that  he  would  delay  until  my  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Allston  arrived,  for  I  knew  .what 
French  habits  were;  \miehcharmante!  at  just  a 
quarter  before  ten  I  heard  a  voice  I  knew  so  well 
asking  at  the  door  for  papa.  Oh,  the  sweet  southern 
accent  of  France,  how  it  thrilled  my  heart !  Then 
the  two  tones  together  reached  me  from  the  study ; 
then  the  tinkling  of  glasses  as  papa  offered  him 
wine ;  then  —  ah  then,  a  message  for  me  ! 


"My  Nannie   0."  219 

I  ran  down  with  such  nervous  haste  I  shook  the 
powder  from  my  hair  upon  my  neck,  and  then  I 
stayed  at  the  threshold  in  a  little  fright  of  pleas- 
ure and  pain.  Presently  I  summoned  courage  and 
opened  the  door.  A  mist  came  before  my  eyes, 
but  through  it  I  was  conscious  of  a  glance  that  rapt 
me  from  that  moment  away  from  the  world.  Then 
he  started  forward  to  meet  me  —  he  took  my  hand 
—  he  murmured  softly  :  — 

"  And  I  see  you  once  more  !  I  have  prayed  for 
this  hour,  Nannie."  Here  my  father  interposed : 
"  De  Gremont,  you  know  upon  what  terms  you 
meet!"  I  heard  the  words,  but  they  sounded  afar 
off.  I  did  not  catch  their  meaning.  I  only  com- 
prehended De  Gremont's  reply  as  he  waived  his 
hand  with  a  little  gesture  as  though  he  put  away 
some  obstacle.  "  Give  her  to  me  five  minutes,  five 
seconds,  Monsieur  M'Lean,  and  then"  —  I  was  in 
some  sort  of  a  dream  for  a  space  —  severed  from 
my  common  daily  life  and  in  a  little  sphere  of  rest 
and  delight.  Then  my  hand  was  released  with  a 
lingering  pressure ;  it  was  like  a  farewell,  and  be- 
fore he  spoke  I  felt  as  if  the  north  wind  was  blow- 
ing down  to  my  southern  vintage  land,  and  I  was 
once  more  alone. 

"  M'amselle,"  he  said,  "  I  have  told  your  father 
that  I  love  you  —  that  I  have  good  blood,  good 
position,  and  respectable  means.  He  approves  all 


220  "My  Nannie   0." 

this,  but  refuses  you  to  me  because  I  am  of  the 
Mother  Church  ;  because  I  am  not  of  your  faith ; 
and,  m'amselle,  he  says  you  are  to  be  given  in 
marriage  to  a  priest  of  his  order !  " 

Then  I  told  the  whole  truth.  Was  this  a  time 
for  faltering  ?  I  told  of  my  preference  long  ago 
when  we  walked  in  the  garden  of  the  old  chateau, 
and  how  it  had  grown  to  something  deeper  now, 
and  that  I  could  never  consent  to  marry  another 
man. 

Then  my  father  put  on  his  iron  look.  Ah  me ! 
and  as  good  as  swore  that  I  should  never  marry 
one  of  the  corrupt  Catholic  Church ;  indeed,  that 
I  should  never  marry  other  than  young  Leighton. 
My  blood  rose  at  this  —  my  fiery  Chastellux  blood 
—  and  I  said  some  rash  things;  and  there  before 
us  both  he  stood,  De  Gremont,  looking  like  an 
angel  —  so  kind,  so  sorrowful,  so  calm. 

Into  my  storm  of  words  my  father's  stern  voice 
broke  again :  he  never  looked  at  me. 

"  De  Gremont,  you  know  the  terms  upon  which 
you  meet." 

"  That  I  would  give  her  up  if  I  could  see  her 
now  —  I  remember ! " 

"  But  I  will  not  be  given  up  !  "  I  cried,  in  a  little 
passion  of  tears.  "  I  will  not  be  given  up,  De 
Gremont ! " 

Oh  the  light  that  came  into  his  eyes,  the  color 


"  My  Nannie   0."  221 

that  mounted  to  his  cheek ;  and  I  knew  then  that  I 
had  sealed  my  fate  and  his.  The  next  moment  he 
was  gone ;  he  had  wrung  my  hand  at  parting,  and 
left  a  kiss  upon  it,  and  a  tear  —  it  is  my  marriage 
ring.  Then  my  father  —  how  he  talked  to  me  — 
he  called  me  "  unmaidenly  "  and  "  forward,"  and 
sent  me  to  my  room  with  a  fire  in  my  heart  and 
rebellion  in  my  soul. 

At  twelve,  when  I  came  down  to  keep  my  ap- 
pointment with  Mr.  Allston,  he  stood  drawing  on 
his  gloves  waiting  to  accompany  me.  I  knew  what 
it  meant ;  I  was  to  be  overlooked,  watched.  I  am 
afraid  I  have  a  very  bad  heart,  for  I  said  to  my- 
self :  "  Is  this  love  that  my  father  feels  for  me,  this 
selfish  determination  to  force  me  into  compliance  ?  " 
Then  I  tried  to  remember  how  he  had  in  many 
ways  been  very  kind,  and  that  he  was  my  father 
and  had  a  right  to  treat  me  thus :  but  I  could  not 
make  it  right ;  the  old  rebellious  heart  kept  on. 

Arrived  at  Mr.  Allston's,  we  found  the  door  ajar 
and  passed  in :  two  or  three  persons  stood  with 
their  backs  toward  us  looking  at  a  picture ;  and  I 
heard  one  say  :  — 

"  It  is  the  look  of  those  who  die  young  —  a 
sudden,  undecaying  death  !  " 

I  stepped  forward  —  they  were  standing  before 
my  portrait,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation.  I 
glanced  at  papa  —  he  looked  annoyed ;  and  beyond 


222  "My  Nannie   0." 

feeling  a  little  wicked  pleasure  that  he  had  over- 
heard this  remark,  I  did  not  otherwise  think  of  it. 
Afterward,  when  I  spoke  of  it  to  mamma,  she 
shuddered,  and  begged  me  not  to  think  of  such 
gloomy  predictions.  Somehow  it  does  not  trouble 
me  at  all  —  and  I  wonder,  for  I  am  a  superstitious 
little  thing.  Ah,  mon  Dieu  !  nothing  troubles  me 
now  but  one  cruel  fate ;  and  death  is  better  than 
separation  surely. 

I  sat  a  long  while  to  Mr.  Allston ;  but  at  last  he 
flung  his  brush  down. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  it  is,"  he  said,  "  but  I  can- 
not get  that  look  from  the  eyes :  the  more  I  labor 
the  stronger  it  becomes." 

Papa  came  round  and  stood  before  it  with  a 
disturbed  face,  glancing  at  me  now  and  then. 
"  Your  daughter  is  not  well,  perhaps,  to-day,  Mr. 
M'Lean?" 

"  She  was  never  better,  sir ! "  papa  answered, 
with  his  coldest  manner.  "But  let  it  rest  a  while; 
in  a  week  or  two  the  change  may  come  easier." 

So  \ve  went  home  and  left  it,  to  my  great  relief, 
for  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  strange  event 
of  the  morning. 

For  the  next  three  days  I  do  not  think  papa  had 
me  out  of  his  sight.  On  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
he  called  me  into  his  study  and  told  me  something 
that  turned  me  stone-cold  —  that  De  Gremont  had 


"My  Nannie   0."  223 

sailed  for  France.  "  I  saw  him  last  night,"  he 
went  on,  "  when  he  intrusted  me  with  this,  which 
I  told  him  I  would  give  into  your  hands."  I  re- 
membered it  —  a  great  seal-ring  which  had  been  his 
father's  :  a  new  hope  shot  into  my  heart  as  I  took 
it.  The  motto  was  "Attendre  et  veitte"  rudely  cut 
upon  the  shield  of  gold,  and  I  remembered  the  old> 
tradition  he  had  once  related  to  me.  The  ring  had 
been  in  the  family  since  the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze ; 
one  of  his  ancestors  had  it  made  for  a  token  —  a 
token  of  his  constancy  when  separated  from  the 
lady  of  his  love  —  sending  it  to  her  by  a  trusty 
servant.  She  understood  its  meaning,  and  watched 
and  waited,  filled  with  hope  and  faith. 

I  knew  that  he  sent  this  ring  to  me  for  the  same 
purpose,  and  /  would  wait  and  watch  ! 

That  very  night,  as  I  sat  by  the  window  after 
every  one  had  gone  to  church  but  mamma  and  I,  I 
heard  a  low,  fine  whistle  —  the  same  tune,  "  My 
Nannie  O!"'  He  had  not  gone  then;  it  was  all  a 
ruse  —  a  solemn  ruse  ;  no  simple  cheat  of  cunning, 
for  he  is  the  best  and  bravest  gentleman  that  ever 
lived  —  a  sacred  stratagem  to  overcome  the  force 
of  might,  not  right.  Mamma  was  in  her  room, 
and  I  was  alone  in  the  parlor ;  again  the  low,  fine 
whistle,  nearer  yet,  under  my  very  window.  I 
leaned  out,  I  spoke  softly  :  — 

"  I  am  here  and  alone ;  I  will  come  out  to  you." 


224  "  My  Nannie   0." 

I  ran  around  by  the  currant  path  and  met  him  — 
met  him  alone  for  the  first  time  in  three  years. 
Oh,  well  I  remember  that  parting  in  the  garden  of 
the  chateau  !  —  well  I  remember  how  he  looked  as 
he  said,  u  When  I  am  my  own  master,  Nannie,  I 
shall  ask  you  of  your  father  ;  but  you  will  forget 
me  ere  then,  perhaps."  And  in  all  the  three  years, 
because  I  had  no  word  or  token,  I  thought  /was 
forgotten  instead.  I  little  understood  his  sense  of 
honor  and  delicacy. 

And  now  he  had  asked  rny  father  the  fatal  ques- 
tion —  fatal  it  had  indeed  proved ;  and  here  we 
met,  the  scions  of  the  houses  of  De  Gremont  and 
Chastellux,  in  secrecy  and  trepidation. 

He  asked  me  to  fly  with  him ;  he  said,  and  my 
heart  —  ay,  my  conscience  —  tells  me  truly,  that 
we  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  ourselves  to  unjust 
prejudice  and  force.  He  told  me  of  the  letter  my 
grandmother  had  written  to  my  father  —  a  letter  of 
approval,  giving  her  consent,  her  benediction  on 
our  union.  And  for  a  question  of  belief  in  certain 
creeds  this  union  must  be  denied  and  given  up ;  ay, 
worse  —  I  must  enter  into  a  marriage  without  love, 
and  while  my  heart  is  another's  !  Ah,  mon  Dieu  ! 
what  shall  I  do.  A  marriage  without  love  is  in- 
famy ;  I  would  die  rather,  for  I  know  what  love  is 
now.  Thus  three  days  have  I  been  tortured  and 
fluctuating ;  every  hour  dreading  discovery  of  De 


"My  Nannie   0."  225 

Gremont's  stolen  stay  in  the  city,  and  to  our  even- 
ing interviews.  To-night  must  witness  my  decision. 
Disobedience  to  my  father,  or  a  living  death  for 
years  perhaps. 

What  next  shall  be  recorded  upon  these  pages  I 
marvel.  Mutiny  or  death?  I  shudder  and  turn 
cold. 

Friday,  1795. 

I  have  decided ;  last  night,  while  the  guests  were 
assembled  at  Governor  Adams's,  I  stole  out  in  my 
gauze  dress  to  the  old  pine  avenue,  where  I  had 
appointed  to  meet  him.  He  was  waiting  for  me : 
oh,  so  worn  and  haggard  in  these  few  days,  yet 
looking  so  patient  and  kind !  I  put  my  hands  in 
his  ;  I  said  :  — 

"  Armand,  I  will  go  with  you  —  I  am  yours  !  " 
He  did  not  burst  out  into  any  extravagance  of  joy 
at  this.  He  took  it  solemnly  and  still ;  for  he  feels 
with  me  that  it  is  a  sad  and  solemn  thing  we  are  to 
do.  Solemnly  and  still,  with  hands  clasping  mine 
and  eyes  that  grew  misty  with  emotion,  he  looked 
down  upon  me  and  said  :  — 

"  God  give  me  grace  to  make  your  happiness, 
Nannie ! " 

Then  it  was  arranged   for  our   departure.     On 

Saturday  night  at  eleven  a  French  vessel  is  to  sail 

for  Toulon.     He  knows  the  captain,  the  officers  — 

they  are  friends,  every  one.     There  is  a  chaplain, 

15 


226  "  My  Nannie   0." 

too  —  the  old  chaplain  of  the  chateau  —  who  will 
marry  us.  All  this  time  they  have  waited  for  us, 
the  good,  true  people. 

After  this  interview  I  had  to  go  back  to  the  gay 
rooms,  to  answer  inquiries  as  to  my  absence,  and 
play  my  part  in  the  scene.  I  thought  we  should 
never  get  away.  The  hours  were  endless,  and  all 
night  I  dreamed  of  my  coming  trial,  yet  deliv- 
erance  

It  is  now  seven  o'clock  ;  in  three  hours  I  go  to 
meet  thee,  my  beloved.  Three  hours,  and  I  cut 
adrift  from  my  father's  house  forever !  Ah,  will 
he  curse  me  ?  He  was  never  very  soft,  very  gentle, 
but  he  must  have  loved  me.  I  remember  once 
when  I  was  ill  how  he  walked  with  me  all  night, 
a  peevish,  crying  child,  in  his  arms.  I  remember 
—  God  stay  such  memories  !  Oh,  Lamb  of  God, 
give  me  consolation  in  this  trying  liour  ;  soften 
mv  father's  heart  to  me  !  And  my  mother,  my 
dear  French  mamma,  she  will  not  utterly  hate  me 
for  this  act.  She  has  merci,  she  has  charite.  She 
loves  her  race  —  the  people  of  France ;  she  will 
have  faith  in  me  to  the  last.  She  knows  I  do  not  , 
demean  myself  by  an  alliance  with  the  house  of 
De  Gremont.  And  little  John  —  God  bless  thee, 
little  John  !  —  thou  lovest  me,  mon  frere  ;  and  I, 
oh,  Jean  !  Jean !  I  may  never  see  thee  again  ! 

Ten  minutes  of  the  three  hours  gone.     I  will 


"My  Nannie    0."  227 

write  to  the  last,  and  leave  this  poor  brief  record 
of  my  New  England  life  behind  me,  a  better  ex- 
planation than  I  could  now  give  for  my  flight. 

Brief  record,  indeed,  and  offering  what  vivid  con- 
trasts !  With  what  lightness  I  began  it,  with  what 
tragic  sorrow  do  I  end  it!  How  life,  in  one  night, 
from  a  folded  bud  became  a  perfect  flower ! 

How  slow  the  minutes  creep !  Yet  ah,  mon 
Dieu!  each  one  hastens  me  forever  from  my  fa- 
ther's house.  My  father's  house !  To-morrow  it 
will  be  all  over.  He  will  know  what  I  have  done, 
that  I  have  fled  from  his  roof  and  taken  the  actions 
of  my  life  in  my  own  hands  !  To-morrow  !  Oh,  my 
father,  forgive  me  !  See !  I  leave  a  kiss  for  you 
on  this  insensible  page  —  a  kiss  and  a  tear ;  and 
mother,  my  sweet  French  mother,  you  will  say  a 
prayer  for  me  each  night,  and  I  for  thee  shall  never 
cease  praying !  And  little  Johnny,  little  Jean,  I 
have  thee  in  my  heart  mignon ;  while  it  beats  it 
will  never  turn  cold  to  thee.  Ah,  Johnny,  little 
Johnny,  thou  art  all  the  child  left  now.  Be  brave 
and  gentle,  little  Jean  ;  and  intercede  for  me,  if 
hearts  are  hardened  to  me  when  I  go.  And  Jean, 
when  thou  gettest  to  be  a  man,  do  not  judge  me 
harshly  and  by  the  world's  judgment.  Believe  that 
I  acted  not  hastily,  but  with  calm  consideration  ; 
and  remember  I  loved  thee,  Jean,  to  the  end ! .... 

The  wind  is  rising  —  how  it  soughs  round  the 


228  "My  Nannie   0." 

pines  and  maples  !  Ah,  and  there  is  lightning  over 
the  hills.  A  storm  is  coming  down  to  us.  Well, 
it  is  fit,  my  beloved,  for  this  wild  and  troubled  de- 
parture ! 

How  the  time  goes !  thoughts  grow  leaden,  and 
I  write  but  slowly  as  the  hour  approaches.  Some- 
thing tells  me  I  shall  never  look  upon  thy  face 
again  my  father,  nor  hear  my  mother's  voice,  nor 
kiss  the  lips  of  little  Jean.  Never  again  !  Perhaps 
this  storm  may  find  a  shroud  for  us.  Ah,  how  the 
eyes  of  the  portrait  flashed  upon  me  then.  They 
are  unchanged  as  he  left  them.  *•  The  look  of  those 
who  die  young  —  a  sudden,  undecaying  death  !  " 
Is  this  my  fate  ?  Am  I  going  now  to  meet  it  ? 
Well,  I  would  not  turn  back.  I  go  to  meet  it 
calmly.  The  time  approaches  —  is  now  here.  Fare- 
well father,  mother,  little  Jean  —  I  go  with  your 
images  in  my  heart,  and  love  for  you  for  evermore 
in  my  soul.  Again,  adieu  /  .  .  .  . 

In  family  archives  and  town  records  there  is  a 
storv  told  of  a  fearful  night  in  July,  1795,  a  night 
of  storm  disastrous  on  land  and  sea.  Many  vessels 
went  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  and  in  the  wild  winds. 
Many  sad  stories  were  told  of  shipwreck  and  loss  ; 
but  the  saddest  of  them  all  was  of  the  French  ship 
L'Esperance.  Not  fifty  miles  from  shore  the  storm 
burst  upon  her  in  its  sudden  fury,  dismantling  sails 


"My  Nannie   0."  229 

and  driving  her  against  the  rocks,  where  one  bolt 
of  lightning  finished  the  work  of  destruction.  Guns 
of  distress,  fired  at  short  intervals,  brought  the  citi- 
zens from  their  beds  down  to  the  harbor. 

On  that  night  Judge  M'Lean,  contrary  to  his 
habit,  was  singularly  wakeful  and  restless ;  he  had 
retired  early  as  was  his  wont,  and,  waking  after  a 
brief  slumber,  heard  the  wind  rising  and  soughing 
round  the  pines  and  maples.  A  little  later  a  door 
slammed  with  violence  !  How  high  the  wind  must 
be  !  did  his  wife  hear  it  ?  he  asked.  Yes,  she  had 
heard  it,  too.  Just  then  the  dog  howled  beneath 
the  window  —  a  wild  and  mournful  expression  of 
dumb  emotion.  Then  for  a  brief  period  there  was 
a  lull  ;  the  wind  sank  away,  and  the  air  grew  still 
and  brooding. 

Slumber  again  came  to  the  Judge,  held  him  per- 
haps for  an  hour,  when  an  awful  crash,  as  if  the 
heavens  were  rent  asunder,  awakened  him.  He 
started  from  his  bed,  flung  on  his  dressing-gown, 
lighted  a  candle,  and  looked  out  into  the  hall ;  he 
was  not  a  nervous  man,  nor  given  to  imaginings, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  above  the  raving  wind  he  heard 
the  voice  of  his  daughter  Nannie  calling  in  dire  dis- 
tress. He  listened  —  again  through  the  wide,  old 
hall,  and  down  the  stairway  once  again,  with  ten 
der  supplication,  the  sweet,  young  voice  called  "  Fa- 
ther!" 


230  "  My  Nannie    0." 

He  waited  no  longer,  but  more  rapidly  than  he 
had  moved  perhaps  for  many  a  day  he  strode  on  to 
her  room.  The  door  was  open,  a  candle  flaring 
low  in  its  socket,  and  the  bed  unoccupied.  Open 
on  the  table  lay  the  "  Diary."  A  few  words,  and 
he  knew  the  truth.  Yet  her  voice  !  Ah  !  she  had 
repented  at  the  eleventh  hour  and  turned  back. 
She  was  waiting  at  the  door  for  pardon  and  admit- 
tance. He  would  give  her  both:  and  the  great 
oaken  door  was  unbarred  for  the  penitent ;  but 
only  the  rain  claimed  admittance  —  the  rain  and 
the  wind.  In  vain  he  shouted  her  name  and  waited 
for  a  reply.  None  came. 

Suddenly  the  minute-gun  boomed  through  the 
night :  once  and  yet  again  ;  and  once  again  from 
afar,  borne  down  it  seemed  over  sea  and  shore, 
that  sweet,  thrilling  voice  calling  *k  Father  !  " 

Who  may  tell  what  strange,  unusual  promptings 
of  the  spirit  stirred  within  that  stern  breast  as  out 
into  the  raging  storm  the  Judge,  obeying  that  call, 
took  his  way  ? 

Only  one  boat  crew  dared  to  put  out  on  that  toss- 
ing sea,  and  that,  after  the  stirring  appeals  of  one 
who  did  not  belong  to  their  number;  and  when 
they  pushed  off  from  shore,  at  the  helm  there  he 
sat,  eager  and  watchful  and  still  —  the  old  Judge. 
Returning,  they  brought  the  freight  of  death. 
Lashed  together  on  a  floating  spar,  hand  clasped  in 


"My  Nannie   0."  231 

hand,  and  tresses  mingling,  were  the  dead  bodies 
of  Armand  de  Gremont  and  Nannie  Chastellux 
M'Lean. 

Long  after,  the  sailors  told  how  the  stern  old 
Judge  sat  rigid  and  motionless  watching  the  pale, 
cold  face  of  his  dead  daughter,  and  now  and  then 
saying  softly,  "  Poor  little  Nannie  !  " 

Long  after,  my  father,  the  last  of  the  old  house 
of  M'Lean,  brought  out  of  manifold  wrappings  the 
portrait  of  the  Judge's  daughter.  The  picture  be- 
ing stained  with  mildew  and  must,  in  many  places, 
he  had  it  retouched.  When  the  painter  returned 
it,  the  wild,  prophetic  look  that  once  baffled  the 
unerring  brush  of  Allston  was  no  longer  there  ; 
the  painter  of  another  age  had  sacrilegiously  stricken 
it  out.  But  on  twilight  eves  in  July,  when  the 
wind  is  soughing  through  the  pines  and  maples, 
looking  into  the  lovely  face  there.  I  think  I  see 
the  old,  old  gleam  of  prophetic  intelligence  ;  and  I 
say,  softly,  "  The  look  of  those  who  die  young  —  a 
sudden,  undecaying  death  !  "  Then  I  only  recall 
the  heroine  of  the  French  ship  /,' ' Esperance  —  Nan- 
nie Chastellux  M'Lean.  But  when  the  sunshine 
of  high  noon  streams  down  the  hall  I  recall  the 
arch  young  girl  who  scolded  Hannah  and  swept 
a  saucy  courtesy  to  the  gay  British  soldier.  But 
in  her  tragic  hour,  as  in  her  gay  young  life,  never 
a  truer,  tenderer  heart  ever  beat  in  womanly  bosom 
than  in  the  breast  of  "  My  Nannie  O." 


IN  A  STREET  CAR. 


I. 


IM  MALLORY  came  swinging  on  a  half- 
run  round  the  corner  of  State  Street  to 
catch  an  up-town  car.  "  A  red  car,"  his 
friend  Saxon  had  told  him ;  and  there  it  went  full 
speed  out  of  sight  just  as  he  came  in  view  of  it. 
An  east  wind  was  blowing,  as  it  generally  is  blow- 
ing in  Boston,  and  Jim  Mallory  shivered,  and 
sneezed,  and  drew  up  his  coat-collar,  while  he  anath- 
ematized the  Hub  of  the  Universe  and  her  east 
winds,  as  a  Gothamite  was  bound  to  do.  Presently, 
what  with  the  dust  in  his  eyes  and  the  well-known 
delightful  regularity  of  that  city,  Jim  got  •*  turned 
round,"  as  the  country  folks  say,  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes could  n't  tell  for  the  life  of  him  which  was  up 
town  or  which  was  down  town. 

"  Confound  the  place ! "  he  began,  when  all  at 
once  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  cars  in  the  city  sud- 
denly appeared.  There  they  were,  red  cars  and 
green  cars  and  blue  cars,  bearing  down  upon  him 


In  a  Street  Car.  233 

in  swift  confusion.  He  hailed  the  first,  and  shouted 
where  he  wanted  to  go.  The  driver  shook  his 
head,  and  pointed  backward  in  the  most  indefinite 
manner ;  and  there  were  six  cars  behind  him. 

He  hailed  the  second,  and  went  through  with  the 
same  humiliating  experience.  He  hailed  the  third, 
he  hailed  the  fourth,  and  all  at  once  came  to  his 
senses  at  the  fifth,  and  discovered  they  were  every 
one  going  the  wrong  way,  and  he  himself  all  out  of 
the  way  on  the  wrong  street.  He  breathed  an  ex- 
clamation more  emphatic  than  polite,  and  dashed 
through  to  Tremont  Street  just  in  time  to  catch 
the  car  he  was  after.  Jim  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
ordinarily,  but  you  never  would  have  suspected  it 
now.  To  begin  with,  he  had  a  cold  in  his  head ; 
and  for 

"A  cold  in  the  head 

What  can  be  said, 

Uglier,  stupider,  more  ill-bred?" 

Being  a  blond  man,  too,  made  it  worse,  as  every 
blond,  be  they  man  or  woman,  can  testify ;  for 
flushed  and  swollen  eyelids  and  excoriated  nostrils 
show  off  to  most  dismal  disadvantage  beside  a 
blond's  "hair  of  yellow  or  beard  of  gold."  And 
then  the  thin  tissues,  the  light  skin,  which  evinces 
every  disarrangement !  Well,  besides  a  cold  in  the 
head,  Jim  Mallory  was  covered  with  dust  from  his 
head  to  his  feet.  Then,  because  of  the  cold  in  his 


234  In  a  Street   Car. 

head,  he  had  drawn  his  coat-collar  up  around  his 
ears,  and,  because  of  a  general  uncomfortable  con- 
dition, he  had  drawn  his  shoulders  nearly  up  to  his 
ears.  Then  something  had  happened  to  his  hat. 
I  don't  know  what  it  was.  He  did  n't  know  what 
it  was,  or  he  never  would  have  sat  there  right  in 
the  face  of  those  five  girls,  looking  like  such  a 
Guy,  without  trying  to  remedy  it.  It  was  some- 
thing between  a  crush  and  a  twist,  which,  taken  to- 
gether with  his  general  muffy  appearance,  gave 
him  the  aspect  of  a  forlorn  and  seedy  old  fellow  at 
odds  with  himself  and  with  the  world.  This  was  a 
climax  for  a  young  man  who  led  off  the  German  in 
Avenuedom,  and  who  was  spoken  of  usually  by  all 
feminine  Avenuedom  as  "so  distingue!"  And 
there  sat  those  five  girls,  without  a  suspicion  of 
these  facts  in  his  history.  Five  girls  as  pretty  as 
girls  need  to  be,  laughing  and  chattering  like  — 
like  —  well,  like  five  girls.  I  don't  think  there  is 
any  comparison  that  will  serve  as  well  as  that  after 
all.  There  they  sat,  laughing  and  chattering,  per- 
fectly heedless  of  the  forlorn  and  seedy  old  fellow 
doubled  up  in  the  opposite  corner.  Such  things  as 
he  found  out !  For  there  was  nobody  else  in  the 
car  but  another  forlorn  and  seedy  old  fellow  at  the 
end  of  the  seat.  And  what  heed  did  these  girls 
think  would  be  given  to  their  chatter  by  these  for- 
lorn old  fellows  ? 


In  a  Street    Car.  235 

"  How  do  you  get  your  hair  into  such  a  lovely 
fluff  ?  "  inquired  a  brunette  of  a  blond. 

"Why,  I  roll  it  up  into  curls,  and  then  just  pass 
a  coarse  comb  through  it.  But  yours  is  lovely,  too, 
I  'm  sure.  How  do  you  do  yours  ?  " 

"  Roll  it  on  a  heated  slate-pencil." 

"  Oh,  but  that  hurts  the  hair  so.  I  put  mine 
into  crimping-pins,"  said  another. 

And  still  another :  "  I  braid  mine  and  press  it." 

And  still  another  :  "  Common  hair-pins,  I  think, 
are  the  best  of  all.  But  then  one  looks  so  like  a 
fury  in  any  pins." 

Then  the  brunette  gave  a  little  giggle. 

"  Oh,  girls,  I  put  my  hair  into  pins  once  —  those 
great  crimping-pins  Lou  uses.  It  was  one  morning 
when  it  rained,  and  I  thought  I  was  safe  from  vis- 
itors. I  was  going  to  the  opera  in  the  evening, 
and  I  wanted  to  look  very  nice,  you  know.  Well, 
there  I  sat  in  the  parlor,  practicing  my  last  sing- 
ing lesson,  and  never  heard  the  bell  nor  a  foot- 
step until  some  one  crossed  the  threshold.  Who 
do  you  suppose  it  was?"  And  the  little  dark  head 
buried  itself  in  a  little  Persian  muff  to  smother  an- 
other giggle. 

"  We  can't  guess.  Who  was  it  ?  "  burst  out  the 
other  four  voices  in  the  greatest  excitement. 

Up  came  the  head  from  its  temporary  hiding, 
the  pretty  face  all  a-blush,  the  dark  eyes  all  a-dazzle 


236  In  a  Street   Oar. 

with  laughter,  the  frizzed  hair  a  little  the  worse  for 
the  Persian  muff. 

"  Oh,  girls  !  it  was  Will  Hess  with  Langford  — 
Langford  just  home  from  Paris,  you  know!  " 

"What  did  you  do  ?"  from  the  chorus  of  four. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  die,  and  I  could  n't  run  away  ;  for 
there  they  were,  right  before  me :  so  I  made  the 
best  of  it,  and  laughed,  for  it  was  funny,  and  then 
I  snatched  our  George's  Scotch  cap  from  the  table 
where  he  had  flung  it  that  morning,  and  covered 
up  my  steel  horns  and  my  ugliness  in  a  twink- 
ling." 

"  Plucky,  I  declare ! "  muttered  Jim  Mallory, 
inside  of  his  coat-collar. 

"  Will  said  I  deserved  a  Captaincy  for  my  cool- 
ness and  strategy.  Will  is  always  making  his  bad 
puns,  you  know,"  concluded  the  fair  speaker. 

And  then  the  others  took  up  the  tale,  and  not 
one  but  had  some  gleeful  misadventure  to  relate. 
And  in  this  relating,  what  mysteries  of  rats  and 
mice  and  waterfalls,  of  knots  and  coils  and  curls 
and  crimps,  were  not  revealed  to  Jim  Mallory  as 
he  sat  there  unsuspected  in  his  corner !  It  was  as 
good  —  no,  it  was  a  great  deal  better  than  a  play 
to  him.  But  presently  the  car  filled,  and  the  heed- 
less voices  hushed,  and  the  play  was  over.  And 
presently  appeared  the  conductor,  and  Jim  began 
rummaging  his  pockets  for  change. 


In  a  Street   Car.  237 

"  What !  No  money  !  Where  in  thunder  is  my 
pocket-book  ?  "  he  almost  said  aloud. 

His  pocket-book  was  gone,  probably  picked  when 
he  was  frantically  hailing  those  six  cars.  Yes,  his 
pocket-book  was  gone.  But  he  must  have  some 
loose  change  about  him,  certainly!  and  with  all  the 
blood  in  his  veins  rushing  up  into  his  face,  Jim 
Mallory  continued  his  search  —  a  fruitless  search, 
for  not  a  penny,  even,  could  he  find. 

Here  was  a  pretty  fix  for  a  man  to  be  in.  A 
stranger,  too;  and  just  then  Jim  caught  a  sight  of 
himself  in  a  little  pocket  mirror  he  had  turned  out 
with  other  effects  in  his  searching,  and  discovered 
what  a  forlorn-looking  object  he  was,  and,  con- 
sequently, how  much  more  difficult  and  disagreea- 
ble was  his  position  ! 

What  upon  earth  was  he  going  to  do  ?  What 
upon  earth  was  he  going  to  say  ?  He  had  a  quick 
brain,  usually  fertile  in  expedients,  but  the  igno- 
minious facts  of  the  present  case  were  too  much 
for  him.  He  had  heretofore  declared,  with  rather 
a  grand  manner,  that  a  man  should  rule  circum- 
stances ;  and  here  were  the  most  contemptible  cir- 
cumstances ruling  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  "•  If 
it  was  n't  for  those  five  girls,  now ! "  he  thought. 
But  he  might  as  well  have  said :  "  If  it  was  n't  for 
that  conductor  !  "  and  a  great  deal  better,  for  there 
he  was,  slowly  but  steadily  making  his  way  toward 


238  In  a  Street   Car. 

the  lower  end  of  the  car,  with  a  wary  eye  for  all 
whom  he  caught  napping  or  negligent.  And  there 
were  those  five  girls  with  their  tickets  fluttering 
in  prompt  readiness!  All  at  once  at  this  juncture 
he  became  conscious  of  a  pair  of  the  softest,  ten- 
derest  eyes  he  had  ever  seen  fixed  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  shy  commiseration.  It  was  one  of  those 
five  girls.  It  was  the  brunette,  who  curled  her 
hair  over  a  slate  pencil,  and  dramatized  her  disha- 
bille. So,  she  had  been  watching  him.  She  had 
seen  his  empty  pockets,  and  was  moved  to  pity 
thereby,  spite  of  his  forlorn  and  seedy  appearance. 
He  felt  the  blood  go  tingling  up  into  his  face  again, 
but  before  he  had  time  to  know  whether  he  was 
glad  or  sorry  there  was  a  pull  at  the  bell,  the  car 
stopped,  and  two  or  three  people  were  getting  in. 
In  the  crowd  and  the  confusion  up  started  the 
little  brunette,  and  nodding  over  her  shoulder  at 
her  companions,  made  a  hurried  rush  for  the  door. 
Jim  Mallory,  sitting  there,  saw  once  more  those 
pitying  brown  eyes,  and  then,  as  her  garments 
brushed  past  him,  he  felt  a  little  ungloved  hand 
thrusting  something  into  his  hand.  His  fingers 
closed  over  this  u  something "  mechanically.  For 
a  moment  he  could  see  nothing  in  the  hurry  and 
confusion,  but  there  was  a  near,  faint  scent  of  early 
violets,  which  suddenly  vanished  with  a  soft  rustle 
of  silk.  He  looked  up  then,  and  she  was  gone. 


In  a  Street  Car.  239 

He  looked  down  —  and  there  in  his  palm  was  — 
"•  Why,  bless  my  soul,  a  car-ticket !  "  as  Jim  him- 
self exclaims  whenever  he  tells  the  story.  And  to 
follow  Jim's  words  at  this  point,  which  will  tell  the 
story  better  than  anybody  else's  words :  "  There 
had  that  little  angel,  under  the  disguise  of  crimped 
hair  and  a  lot  of  other  nonsense,  taken  note  of  my 
misfortunes,  and  made  her  little  plan  of  relief, 
which  she  carried  out.  like  the  strategist  she  was, 
at  the  very  climax  of  my  desperation,  arid  when 
the  stir  and  confusion  about  us  would  cover  every 
movement.  Was  n't  it  splendid,  though  ?  How 
many  girls  do  you  suppose  would  have  done  that 
for  such  a  muff  as  1  looked  to  be  that  day  ?  For  I 
tell  you,  Tom,"  —  this  was  to  Tom  Saxon,  —  "  that 
I  did  look  something  awful.  What  with  those  con- 
founded cotton-samples  from  your  office  sticking  to 
me,  and  the  dust,  and  the  cold  in  my  head,  and  a 
smash  in  my  hat,  I  was  about  as  seedy  a  specimen 
as  you  ever  saw."  And  Tom  thought  he  might 
have  been. 

But  out  of  one  dilemma  Jim  Mallory  had 
stepped  fairly  into  another.  As  that  "  little  angel 
in  crimped  hair  and  a  lot  of  other  nonsense " 
stepped  out  of  the  car,  after  the  performance  of 
her  impulsive  action,  —  which  was  really  a  very 
pretty  action,  —  something  entered  Jim's  heart 
which  he  had  no  will  nor  wish  to  banish ;  but,  as 


240  In  a  Street   Car. 

I  say,  it  was  out  of  one  dilemma  into  another  — 
"  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,"  Tom  Saxon 
would  laugh,  for  all  the  clew  he  had  was  a  name 
that  hundreds  of  girls  in  Boston  owned.  And  the 
way  he  got  this  was  at  the  moment  of  her  vanish- 
ing, when  the  astonished  four  cried  out  in  chorus,  — 
"  What 's  Molly  getting  off'  here  for  ?  " 
In  vain  Tom  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
some  half  a  dozen  Mollys  of  his  own  acquaintance. 
From  each,  Jim  Mallory  had  turned  with  a  sigh  of 
disappointment.  Not  one  of  them  belonged  to  his 
angel  in  crimped  hair. 


II. 

IT  was  curious  how  often  after  this  Jim  found 
it  necessary  to  visit  Boston.  There  was  always 
some  "business  for  the  firm,"  which  made  it  ab- 
solutely incumbent  upon  him  to  see  Saxon  &  Co. 
And  when  he  was  there  he  fell  into  the  habit  of 
sauntering  down  Tremont  Street  about  shopping 
hours.  And  from  there  to  Washington  Street, 
into  Williams  &  Everett's,  or  Loring's  library. 
And  not  only  there,  but  into  trimming  stores,  into 
jewelers'  shops,  into  fancy-goods  stores,  into  cars 
and  omnibuses,  and  everywhere  that  he  caught 
the  glimpse  of  a  little  figure  with  dark,  crimped 


In  a  Street   Car.  241 

hair  tucked  under  a  morsel  of  a  bonnet.  He  passed 
the  winter  in  this  hunt.  It  was  worse  than  the 
search  for  change  that  lucky  arid  unlucky  day  when 
he  first  met  her  ;  or,  as  Tom  Saxon  jeeringly 
said,  it  was  like  that  ancient  search  for  a  needle 
in  a  hay-mow.  Such  a  reputation  as  he  got,  too, 
for  the  most  impudent  starer  decorous  Boston  ever 
saw! 

"  I  think  that  New  York  friend  of  yours  is  hor- 
rid, Tom,"  said  not  less  than  six  girls  that  winter 
to  Tom  Saxon. 

"  Horrid  !  how  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Why  he  follows  you  about  and  stares  so  ! " 

Tom  looked  at  them.  Every  one  had  dark  hair, 
and  every  one  had  it  crimped. 

"  He  came  into  a  car  where  I  was  one  day,"  said 
one  of  these  girls,  "and  just  took  an  inventory  of 
my  features;  and  then,  after  fidgeting  about  two 
or  three  minutes,  he  dashed  out." 

Tom  gave  such  a  laugh  at  this  that  the  fair 
speaker  looked  at  him  in  wonderment,  and  pri- 
vately told  an  intimate  friend  of  hers  afterward 
that  she  had  reason  to  think  that  that  Mr.  Mallory 
was  having  a  very  bad  influence  upon  Tom  Saxon, 
for  she  had  seen  him  "  when  —  well  —  when  he 
seemed  very  unlike  himself,  to  say  the  least!" 

If  Tom  could  have  heard  this  I  think  he  would 
have  laughed  still  more.  As  it  was,  his  laugh  was 


242  In  a  Street  Car. 

all  at  Jim  Mallory ;  and  Jim  himself,  though  quite 
in  earnest  in  his  Quixotic  search,  saw  the  joke  as 
readily  as  Tom,  and,  with  ineffable  bonhomie,  en- 
joyed his  own  absurdity. 

As  I  say,  he  passed  the  winter  in  this  hunt,  and 
by  spring  the  excitement  seemed  to  have  subsided, 
or,  at  least,  to  be  externally  overlaid  by  other 
things.  Tom  Saxon  thought  it  had  died  out  en- 
tirely until  one  day,  as  he  was  strolling  across  the 
Common,  listening  to  some  business  suggestions  of 
Mallory's,  he  saw  Jim  give  a  sudden  start  as  a  little 
dark  lady  passed,  with  her  hair  crepe  and  a  gay 
voice,  chatting  volubly  to  her  companion. 

"  Jim,  I  thought  you  had  dropped  that  string." 
•  Jim  laughed,  and  sung,  in  a  low  baritone,  — 

"Her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still." 

That  was  the  last  that  Tom  heard  of  the  sub- 
ject until  —  well,  we  will  not  anticipate. 

Winter  passed,  and  spring  had  come  ;  and  with 
the  spring,  premonitions  of  cholera.  All  the  Mal- 
lory family,  mother  and  sisters,  were  in  a  state  of 
worry  and  fuss  from  the  first,  about  this  expected 
scourge.  They  had  twenty  plans  in  twenty  days 
as  to  where  they  would  go,  and  what  they  would 
do.  Cape  May,  and  Long  Branch,  and  Newport 
went  by  the  board,  because  somebody  had  told 
Mrs.  Mallory  that  the  sea-coast  would  be  unsafe. 


In  a  Street   Car.  243 

Then  came  all  the  mountain  resorts.  This  was  too 
far,  that  was  too  near,  another  too  full,  etc.,  etc., 
until  a  queer  little  place,  perched  up  among  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  was  decided  upon. 

"And  it  will  be  so  nice  for  you,  James  dear,  for 
you  can  get  your  mails  twice  a  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Mallory. 

But  "  James  dear "  made  no  reply  to  this.  He 
had  other  plans. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  sacrifice  city  comfort  another 
summer  for  one  of  those  mosquito  haunts,"  he  said 
to  his  partner,  "  And  as  for  cholera  —  bah  !  " 

And  so  it  came  about  that,  for  the  first  time  in 
six  summers,  Jim  took  up  his  head-quarters  in  the 
deserted  house  at  home,  and  found  it,  as  he  de- 
clared, the  coolest  and  most  comfortable  summer 
resort  he  had  known  for  a  long  time,  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  he  took  no  excursions  away  from 
the  brick  and  mortar  and  marble.  There  was 
scarcely  a  week  but  found  him  for  a  day  or  so  at 
one  or  another  of  the  pleasant  spots  about  New 
York,  which  were  easily  accessible  to  him  by  night 
trains  or  steamers.  In  the  mean  time  his  mother 
and  three  sisters  wrote  him  frantic  letters  from  the 
Kauterskill.  They  offered  him  every  inducement 
they  could  think  of  —  plenty  of  room,  pure  air,  a 
nice  table,  and  "  such  pleasant  society. ' 

"  The  Caledons  —  most  delightful  people  —  are 


244  In  a  Street   Car. 

here,"  wrote  Kate  Mallory ;  "  two  charming  daugh- 
ters and  a  son.  They  live  on  our  street  at  home, 
too  ;  is  n't  it  funny  we  came  way  up  here  to  find 
each  other  out  ?  "  And  here  followed  an  urgent 
entreaty  to  brother  James  to  come  up  by  Saturday 
night  without  fail  and  get  acquainted  with  these  de- 
lightful people.  But  brother  James  had  made  a 
partial  engagement  to  go  home  with  Mr.  Wing,  his 
partner,  on  Saturday  night,  and  he  did  n't  "  see 
that  he  could  get  away  from  it,"  he  wrote  back  to 
Kate. 

Before  Saturday  night,  however,  Jim  Mallory 
found  it  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  away 
from  his  partial  engagement  with  Mr.  Wing.  It 
was  Tuesday  when  he  wrote  to  Kate.  On  Wednes- 
day morning,  as  he  was  walking  down  the  street 
on  the  shady  side,  he  suddenly  heard  a  strange, 
shrill  voice  call  out  —  " Molly  !  Molly!  Molly!" 
He  laughed  a  little  at  the  remembrance  this  called 
up,  and  turned  to  look  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
There  was  n't  a  soul  to  be  seen  within  speaking 
distance.  But  still  that  voice  went  on  :  "  Molly  ! 
Molly !  Molly !  "  ending  with  a  curious  chuckle  of 
laughter.  He  turned  more  quickly  this  time,  and 
there,  just  above  his  head,  discovered  a  gray  parrot 
swinging  in  its  great  gilded  cage.  He  laughed 
again,  and  the  parrot  took  it  up  with  his  mocking 
chuckle,  and  with,  it  seemed  to  Jim,  actually  a 


In  a  Street  Oar.  245 

knowing  wink  at  him,  repeated  once  more :  "  Molly  ! 
Molly!  Molly!" 

Jim  Mallory  shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  thought 
of  the  little  dark-eyed  angel  of  his  search,  and  was 
half  a  mind  to  lift  his  hat  to  her  name,  even  when 
thus  shrilly  cried,  when  all  at  once  something  ap- 
peared at  that  window  by  which  the  parrot  swung 
which  rooted  his  feet  to  the  pavement.  This 
"something"  was  a  little  dark,  dark  head,  crimped 
and  curled,  and  decorated  with  brilliant  little  bows, 
that  fluttered  in  the  morning  breeze  like  the  pen- 
nons of  his  hope.  He  had  spent  a  whole  winter 
hunting  for  her.  He  had  haunted  Boston  streets, 
and  Boston  cars,  and  Boston  shops,  day  in  and 
day  out,  without  result;  and  here  at  last  he  found 
her  —  here  in  New  York,  in  the  very  heat  of  mid- 
summer ! 

And  there  she  stood,  talking  and  chattering  to 
her  bird,  looking  more  like  a  little  angel  than 
ever  ;  and  there  below,  looking  up  at  her,  stood 
Jim  Mallory  in  a  dazed  and  hopeless  condition. 
It  is  n't  possible  for  any  young  woman  to  remain 
long  unconscious  of  such  a  gaze  as  this  —  some 
attraction,  magnetism,  or  whatever  it  may  be, 
makes  them  "  aware  "  at  length.  So  presently  the 
owner  of  the  frizzed  hair  and  the  fluttering  bows 
ceased  talking  to  her  bird,  and,  with  a  little  start, 
became  conscious  of  the  observation  of  Jim  Mai- 


246  In  a  Street   Car. 

lory  ;  and  once  observed  by  those  bright  eyes,  no 
young  man  could  have  had  the  hardihood  to  have 
remained  at  his  post. 

But  I  must  say,  Jim  Mallory  left  his  position 
gallantly  —  some  might  have  said  audaciously  — 
but  there  is  no  audacity  but  of  impertinence,  and 
of  this  there  was  not  a  particle  in  Jim.  So  now 
when  he  met  those  bright  eyes,  and  turned  away 

with   his    hat    lifted   to    them,  I  say  he  did   sral- 

j 

lantly,  and  the  young  lady  who  was  the  object 
of  this  gallantry  was  intuitive  enough  to  think  so 
too. 

You  may  be  sure  that  as  he  went  he  was  not  so 
dazed  but  that  he  sent  a  keen  glance  toward  the 
door  which  shut  in  his  little  dark-eyed  lady.  But 
there  was  only  the  number  2767  —  no  betraying 
door-plate  gave  him  further  clew.  This  was  enough, 
however,  for  the  present.  More  than  enough  you 
would  have  said  if  you  had  watched  him  that  morn- 
ing. Wing,  who  was  the  sedate  father  of  a  family, 
catching  the  look  in  his  eyes,  asked  him,  with  grim 
humor,  if  he  had  lately  come  into  the  possession  of 
his  Spanish  estates. 

Mallory  laughed  his  genial,  jovial  laugh,  and 
confessed  that  he  had  had  direct  news  of  them. 

Fate,  which  had  been  so  elusive  with  him  for 
the  last  six  months,  now  seemed  to  smile  invit- 
ingly, for  that  very  night  as  he  paced  slowly  up 


In  a  Street   Car.  247 

the  street,  humming  to  himself  "  Her  bright  smile 
haunts  me  still,"  there  from  the  doorway  beamed 
the  very  smile  he  was  singing  of  —  but  —  but  — 
who  the  deuce  was  that  —  that  black-bearded, 
Italian-faced  individual,  who  sat  so  composedly 
on  the  second  step  ?  What  if  Jim  saw  his  Span- 
ish estates  disappearing  in  a  blue  mist  at  this  if. 

The  next  moment  the  mist  cleared. 

"  Mr.  Langford,  when  do  you  return  ?"  the  lady 
asked  of  the  black-bearded. 

Jim  never  heard  the  answer.  What  did  he  care 
when  he  returned  ?  he  was  only  "  Mr.  Langford  " 
to  her. 

The  next  sentence  brought  the  blue  mist  back  a 
little. 

"  Will  says  he  should  like  to  spend  every  winter 
in  Paris." 

Will  ?  who  was  this  Will  ?  what  relation  did  he 
bear,  confound  him,  to  the  dark-eyed  little  party  ? 
Then  he  recalled  the  Will  Hess  of  her  gay  misad- 
venture. So  here  he  was  again.  Suppose  now 
this  Will  Hess  had  long  ago  taken  possession  of 
his  Spanish  castle?  Suppose  —  but  hark,  what 
name  is  that?  Can  he  believe  his  ears  when 
Langford  says  :  "  Miss  Caledon  "  ?  Miss  Cale- 
don  ?  Kate's  Miss  Caledori  ?  Yes,  clearly,  Kate's 
Miss  Caledon,  for  presently  she  remarks  about  the 
Kauterskill,  and  something  else,  which  explains 


248  In  a  Street  Car. 

her  presence  in  New  York  for  that  week.  Kate's 
Miss  Caledon  !  Was  there  ever  anything  like  it  ? 

"  What  an  idiot  I  've  been  !  "  he  soliloquized. 
"  Rushing  all  over  Boston,  when  if  I  had  had 
my  eyes  open  I  dare  say  I  might  have  met  her 
a  dozen  times  on  Broadway.  Visiting  at  the 
Hub  with  those  four  girls,  I  suppose,  when  I  saw 
her." 

Which  conclusion  of  Jim's  was  the  most  accu- 
rate one  he  had  arrived  at  for  some  time,  as  he 
ascertained  when  he  called  upon  Molly  Caledon 
the  next  morning.  Yes,  he  actually  called  upon 
her,  upon  the  strength  of  Kate's  last  letter. 

To  Molly  Caledon  this  call  seemed  by  no  means 
hasty  or  singular,  for  after  the  manner  of  young 
women,  she  and  Kate  Mallory  had  become  bosom 
friends  in  these  last  six  weeks,  and  what  so  natural 
as  "  dear  Kate's  "  brother  calling  upon  her  when 
she  was  in  town?  I  think  Kate  herself  would 
have  been  no  little  astonished  if  she  could  have 
listened  to  Jim's  free  reference  to  her  letter ;  and 
I  think  she  might  have  been  doubtful  whether  she 
had  ever  written  that  letter.  Certain  it  is  that 
Miss  Caledon  received  the  impression  by  this 
sketehy  reference  of  Jim's,  that  it  was  at  Kate's 
information  of  her  presence,  and  at  her  suggestion 
that  he  ventured  to  call.  But  as  I  have  said  be- 
fore, what  could  seem  more  natural  than  this  call  ? 


In  a  Street   Car.  249 

And  what  more  natural  than  Mr.  Mallory's  return- 
ing with  her  to  the  Mountains  ?  And  what  more 
natural  than  that  on  this  journey  these  two  should 
progress  very  rapidly  in  their  acquaintance  with 
such  a  mutual  foundation  of  intimacy  arid  interest 
as  "  dear  Kate  ?  "  As  for  "  dear  Kate,"  she  had 
the  wit  and  tact  to  keep  her  astonishment  within 
proper  bounds,  but  whenever  she  found  Jim  alone 
did  n't  he  have  to  take  it  ? 

"  I  can't  imagine  how  you  can  be  contented  to 
stay  here,  Jim "  she  would  say ;  "  and  I  can't 
imagine  how  Mr.  Wing  can  do  without  you  so 
long." 

But  Jim  could  imagine,  and  so  I  think  after  a 
time  could  little  Molly  Caledon ;  and  so  I  think 
after  a  time  could  every  member  of  the  house ;  and 
it  was  n't  very  difficult  to  prophesy  the  denouement 
either,  in  the  estimation  of  these  on-lookers.  But 
to  Jim  it  seemed  much  more  difficult,  for  Molly 
Caledon  was  far  too  bright  to  carry  her  heart  on 
her  sleeve,  and  a  spice  of  feminine  coquetry  helped 
her  to  play  a  game  of  hide-and-seek. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  she  had  to 
give  it  up,  and  acknowledge  herself  found,  if  not 
caught.  It  was  the  day  Will  Hess  and  Langford 
came.  "  Now,  or  never  !  "  thought  Jim  Mallory,  as 
he  watched  her  greeting  with  the  aforesaid  gentle- 
men. "  Now,  or  never  !  "  I  think  Molly  must 


250  In  a  Street  Car. 

have  had  a  suspicion  of  his  design,  for  with  a  queer, 
coquettish  perversity  she  put  him  off,  first  with  cro- 
quet, and  then  with  a  very  animated  discussion  with 
Langford,  and  so  on,  through  a  list  of  employments 
and  occupations  that  continually  necessitated  a  third 
party.  But  Jim  was  too  sharp  for  her  at  last.  The 
mail  had  just  come  in,  and  as  he  read  his  letter 
from  Wing  with  this  item  at  the  close :  "  One  of 
us  will  probably  have  to  go  to  Paris  next  year ; " 
a  bit  of  strategy  suddenly  proposed  itself  to  him, 
which  he  forthwith  acted  upon.  Walking  straight 
by  the  group  wherein  Miss  Caledou  stood  talking 
animatedly  with  Langford,  he  glanced  up  from  his 
letter  with  the  most  absorbed  air  and  inquired  of 
the  landlord  when  the  next  train  left. 

"  Oh,  are  you  going  to  New  York,  Mr.  Mai- 
lory  ?  "  asked  Molly,  with  great  sang-froid.  "  And 
if  you  are,  will  you  undertake  a  commission  for 
me  ? "  and  Molly  came  forward  from  the  group 
at  this. 

Then  she  saw  his  serious  preoccupied  business 
face. 

"  No  bad  news,  Mr.  Mallory  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  not  in  the  least ;  only  my  partner 
writes  that  one  of  us  must  go  to  Paris ;  and  I  sup- 
pose that  one  will  be  your  humble  servant.  How 
many  commissions  shall  I  execute  for  you  there, 
Miss  Caledon  ?  "  looking  straight  into  the  pretty 


In  a  Street   Car.  251 

face  before  him.  There  was  a  quiver  of  the  eye- 
lids —  a  quiver  of  the  lips,  and  a  sudden  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  hide-and-seek  game  altogether  ;  and  Jim 
knew  that  he  had  won. 

"  Coine  into  the  garden,  Molly,"  he  said,  in  a 
lower  tone.  "  I  've  something  else  to  tell  you." 

They  went  into  the  garden,  and  so  absorbing 
was  the  story  that  he  had  to  tell  that  he  for- 
got all  about  the  "  next  train  "  until  Molly,  as 
she  heard  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  locomotive, 
looked  up  slyly  into  his  face,  and  said  :  "  How 
about  the  cars,  Mr.  Mallory  ?  I  think  you  've  lost 
them  !  " 

Jim  laughed.  "  But  I  've  found  something  bet- 
ter than  the  cars,  Molly."  And  then  he  laughed 
still  more.  And  then  he  told  her  that  other  story 
of  the  cars  when  he  had  first  met  and  fell  in  love 
with  her. 

"  And  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  were 
that  old  codger  in  the  corner  ?  "  asked  Molly  .in 
amaze. 

"  I  do,  Miss  Molly." 

"  My  !  but  did  n't  we  girls  go  on  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you  did.  I  found  out  all 
your  hair-dressing  secrets  —  all  about  the  crimp- 
ing and  frizzing,  you  know  —  and  say,  Molly, 
do  you  '  do  '  your  curls  now  over  a  slate-pencil  ? 


252  In  a  Street   Car. 

and  do  you  ever  get  caught  in  your  hair-pins  by 
such  young  gentlemen  as  Hess  and  Langford 
now  ?  " 

"  My  goodness,  did  I  go  on  like  that  ?  " 

"Just  like  that ;  and  I  thought  the  story  in  the 
end  of  the  Scotch  cap  was  rather  a  plucky  climax. 
And  when  I  listened  to  it,  and  saw  what  a  gay  little 
bird  of  Paradise  you  were,  I  hud  no  idea  that  such 
a  tender  heart  lurked  beneath." 

Molly  laughed  a  little  and  blushed  a  little  as  she 
said:  "Well,  I  don't  know  how  any  one  could 
have  seen  another  in  such  a  horrid  dilemma  with- 
out doing  something  to  help  him  out  of  it.  I  re- 
member, though,  how  scared  I  felt  as  I  jumped 
up  ;  for,  you  know,  I  had  to  get  off  there  to  hide 
the  action,  for  I  knew  /  should  feel  silly  enough, 
and  I  knew  it  would  be  terribly  embarrassing  all 
round." 

"  Yes,  and  in  that  way  I  learned  your  Christian 
name ;  for  all  those  four  girls  wondered  what 
Molly  was  getting  off  there  for." 

"  And  that  was  why  you  stopped  under  my  win- 
dow, Sir,  was  it,  when  my  bird  called  Molly  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  saw  me  at  once,  did  you,  Miss 
Molly  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  lift  your  hat  to  me,  Sir,"  answered 
Miss  Caledon,  rather  confusedly. 


In  a  Street   Car.  253 

"  And  Molly,  my  girl  !  "  returned  Jim  Mallory, 
now  dropping  his  gay  tone,  "  I  shall  lift  my  hat 
always  to  the  angel  in  your  nature  I  discovered 
that  day  in  the  street  car." 


MRS.  F.'S  WAITING-MAID. 


|HEN  General  Butler  was  in  New  Orleans, 
Colonel  F.  with  his  wife  and  family  oc- 
cupied the  confiscated  mansion  of  a  Mr. 
Chesang  —  a  Frenchman  by  birth,  and  a  rebel  by 
principle.  There  were  Mrs.  F.  and  her  two  chil- 
dren, Tom  and  Eva,  —  a  boy  and  girl  of  fourteen 
and  eleven,  and  Mrs.  F.'s  sister  —  a  young  lady  of 
twenty.  Besides  these,  two  or  three  officers  made 
it  their  home  with  them.  It  was  a  pleasant  party, 
and  Mrs.  F.  enjoyed  it  vastly,  with  one  drawback, 
however.  She  was  a  New  England  woman,  and 
accustomed  to  the  domestic  life  of  New  England. 
Her  house  had  always  been  a  model  of  elegant 
nicety  — her  servants  well  trained  and  reliable,  as 
a  usual  tiling.  To  a  person  with  her  habits  these 
slave-servants  were  almost  intolerable.  This.  thru. 
was  the  drawback  —  her  bete-noir  in  the  midst  of 
so  much  that  was  delightful. 

"  The  idea,  Tom,"  she  would  say  to  her  husband, 
"  of  being  obliged  to  have  six  people  to  do  what 
two  could  do  at  the  North ;  and  then  of  all  the 
idle,  careless,  irresponsible  creatures  !  " 


Mrs.  F:S   Waiting-Maid.  255, 

The  Colonel  took  it  philosophically  —  laughed 
at  their  idleness,  quoted  the  climate,  their  training 
or  want  of  training,  and  told  Mrs.  F.  that  in  Rome 
she  must  expect  to  do  as  the  Romans  did.  Mrs. 
F.  knew  all  this,  and  a  good  deal  more  about  it 
than  Tom  did,  and  she  knew  it  was  a  trial. 

But  one  day  she  came  in  to  dinner  radiant.  I 
believe  she  thought  the  worst  of  her  troubles  were 
over. 

"  Tom  !  "  she  said,  in  an  exultant  undertone  as 
she  stood  by  the  window  with  him  waiting  for  Ma- 
jor Luce  to  come  in  — "  Tom,  I  've  discharged 
Rose,  and  engaged  a  perfect  jewel  of  a  waiting- 
maid." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Let's  send  out  at  once  and 
have  a  cannon  fired  and  the  bells  rung." 

"  Now,  Tom,  be  serious  and  listen.  She  is  a 
Creole,  and  belonged  formerly  .in  a  French  family 
up  the  river,  and  does  n't  speak  a  word  nor  under- 
stand a  word  of  English  ; "  and  Mrs.  F.  looked  up 
in  triumph  as  if  the  last  item  was  the  crowning 
virtue. 

The  Colonel  laughed  gayly.  "That's  the  best 
of  all,  is  it,  Kate  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  the  least,  Colonel  Tom.     Do  you  re- 
member how  Rose  used  to  be  found  at  key-holes 
sometimes  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Tom,  significantly. 
Just  here  Major  Luce  came  in,  and  the  subject 


256  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting- Maid. 

was  dropped  as  they  turned  to  the  dinner-table  ; 
but  when  they  rose  the  Colonel,  who  could  never 
spare  his  fun,  took  Luce  aside  and  said  lowly,  but 
not  so  lowly  but  that  Mrs  Tom  heard :  — 

"  Luce,  I  want  you  to  go  down  to  the  General 
and  communicate  a  bit  of  news  to  him  —  it 's  a  bell- 
ringing,  cannon-firing  affair,  Luce,  and  I've  no 
doubt  he  '11  give  orders  "  — 

"  Now,  Colonel,  you  're  too  bad  ;  "  and  Mrs. 
Tom,  interposing,  told  the  story  herself ;  but  the 
Colonel  had  his  laugh,  and  that  was  all  he  wanted. 
Four  or  five  days  passed,  and  nothing  more  was 
said  about  the  new  waiting-maid  until  one  morning 
the  Major  asked,  "  How  does  Rose's  successor  get 
on,  Mrs.  F.  ?  " 

"Admirably.  She's  a  perfect  treasure,  Major 
Luce.  I  knew  I  should  like  her  in  the  beginning, 
she  was  so  quiet  and  deft.  Ah,  Major,  if  you  had 
ever  had  your  muslins  torn,  and  your  laces  lost, 
and  your  best  silk  dresses  borrowed  without  your 
leave,  you  would  appreciate  what  it  is  to  be  served 
by  this  Mathilde,"  concluded  Mrs.  F.,  with  mock 
gravity. 

The  Major  laughed. 

';  I  dare  say  I  should,  Mrs.   F. ;  but  my  muslins  ' 
and  laces  are  warranted  not  to  tear  or  lose,  and  my 
best  silk  dresses  don't  fit  anybody  but  myself." 

Later  on  that  same  day  they  were  all  sitting  in 


Mrs.  F:S    Waiting-Maid.  257 

the  drawing-room,  —  Mrs.  F.  and  the  Colonel,  and 
Miss  Yescey  —  Mrs.  F.'s  sister,  and  Major  Luce 
and  two  other  officers  who  had  dropped  in  for  a 
call.  It  was  getting  late,  and  a  wind  had  sprung 
up.  Mrs.  F.  shivered  with  a  little  chill. 

"  Kate,  you  are  taking  cold ;  send  for  that  para- 
gon to  bring  your  shawl,"  suggested  the  Colonel, 
in  an  aside. 

When  the  paragon  came  in  with  the  shawl  he 
was  busy  talking  again.  Major  Luce,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  disengaged  and  looking  that  way,  was 
probably  the  only  person  conscious  of  her  person- 
ality as  she  entered.  "  How  well  she  carries  her- 
self !  "  he  thought,  vaguely.  Then  he  glanced  at 
her  face.  Below  stiff  folds  of  muslin,  which  con- 
cealed her  hair,  shone  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes, 
an  olive  cheek,  and  a  mouth  cut  like  Diana's, 
and  curving  beneath,  a  chin  so  firm,  it  was  a  trifle 
heavy. 

"  She  looks  like  a  picture  ;  and  where  have  I 
seen  one  like  it  ?  "  mused  the  Major.  "  I  know.  In 
Valsi's  studio  at  New  York  there  's  a  Roman  girl 
carrying  a  palm-branch,  which  she  regards  dis- 
dainfully. I  used  to  think  that  Miss  Laudersmine 
looked  like  it  too,  sometimes.  Valerie  Lauders- 
mine. I  wonder  where  she  is  now.  She  was  a 
Louisianian  —  used  to  spend  her  winters  at  New 
Orleans.  Flandsome,  haughty  creature  —  how  she 


258  Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid. 

would  lift  that  proud  head  of  hers  if  she  knew  I 
put  her  in  comparison  with  a  slave-girl  !  Heigh- 
ho  !  I  suppose  she  's  a  rebel  now.  If  she  had 
been  a  man  a  pair  of  epaulets  would  have  shone 
on  her  shoulders.  And  how  soft  she  could  be 
too,  sometimes  !  I  called  her  Valerie  once  —  ah 
me  !  " 

And  in  his  recollection  of  Valerie  Laudersmine 
he  forgot  Mathilde  the  waiting-maid. 

The  waiting-maid,  however,  as  the  days  went 
on,  continued  to  give  unbounded  satisfaction  to  her 
mistress.  Nobody  ever  dressed  hair  like  her  ;  no- 
body was  ever  at  once  so  deft  and  tasteful.  Of 
course  the  Major  forgot  all  about  her ;  never 
thought  of  her  again  until  again  she  recalled  the 
picture  in  Valsi's  studio,  and  so  —  Miss  Lauders- 
mine. He  was  playing  backgammon  with  Miss 
Vescey  in  Mrs.  F.'s  little  sitting-room  up-stairs 
one  morning,  and  glancing  over- the  board  he 
could  see  Mathilde  sitting  sewing  in  the  room  be- 
yond. 

;t  Did  you  ever  see  that  Roman  girl  in  Valsi's 
studio,  Miss  Vescey  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.     It 's  a  strange  picture.  I  think." 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  that  your  new  waiting- 
woman  looks  like  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  thought  of  it ;  but  now  you  men- 
tion it,  seems  to  me  I  do  see  the  resemblance. 


Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid.  259 

But  you  need  n't  speak  so  low,  Major  Luce  ;  she 
does  n't  understand  a  word  of  English." 

"  Oh,  she  does  n'.t !  " 

Presently  Mrs.  F.  came  in,  and  presently  after 
coming  in  she  wanted  something  which  Mathilde 
must  bring. 

"  Mathilde  !  "  and  Mathilde  carne,  quiet,  sound- 
less of  foot,  arid  prompt.  She  stood  receiving  the 
order,  while  the  rest  talked,  oblivious  of  her.  Major 
Luce  was  listening  to  Miss  Vescey's  description  of 
the  onvx  ring  she  wore,  and  listening,  was  holding 
Miss  Vescey's  hand  to  look  at  the  ring  for  the  mo- 
ment. He  glanced  up  from  the  hand  suddenly,  and 
caught  a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  not  Miss  Vescey's ; 
dark,  brilliant,  and  piercing,  they  startled  him  with 
an  odd  sensation,  like  peril  ;  but  as  quickly  as  he 
met  them  they  were  withdrawn.  As  she  left  the 
room  the  influence  seemed  to  .pass,  and  he  laughed 
at  himself  for  it.  He  hardly  thought  of  it  again 
until  the  next  day,  as  he  was  running  up  the  stairs, 
he  came  upon  her  carrying  a  basket  of  flowers  to 
her  mistress's  room.  Two  or  three  choice  roses 
fell  out  at  his  feet,  and  he  stooped  involuntarily  to 
pick  them  up.  As  he  tossed  them  back  he  looked 
at  her  eyes  again,  but  the  lids  were  down,  and  her 
"  Je  vous  remercie  "  was  spoken  in  a  swift  nasal, 
and  her  whole  air  the  very  type  of  the  class  of 
slaves  who  are  educated  in  the  houses  of  the 


260  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid. 

French  planters  up  the  river.  As  she  went  in  lie 
met  Mrs.  F.  coming  out.  He  could  say  to  Mrs.  F. 
what  he  could  n't  to  Miss  Vescey,  for  besides  being 
a  great  friend  of  his  she  was  a  married  friend.  Mrs. 
F.  knew  a  good  deal  about  his  affairs,  one  way 
and  another,  and  what  he  hadn't  told  her  she 
had  guessed  from  what  he  had  told.  She  knew 
about  Valerie  Laudersmine.  She  knew,  that  is, 
that,  as  the  phrase  goes,  Miss  Laudersmine  and 
Major  Luce  had  had  a  great  flirtation,  and  that  at 
the  end  of  the  summer,  when  she  waited  to  hear 
of  their  engagement,  that  Luce  suddenly  disap- 
peared, and  only  came  back  when  Miss  Lauders- 
mine had  left,  and  then  with  a  gloomy  face,  and 
two  or  three  bitter  words  that  once  or  twice 
dropped  from  his  lips.  She  had  guessed  the  story, 
for  she  knew  Valerie  Laudersmine  well  enough 
to  know  how  proud  she  was,  and  how  high  she 
looked  ;  and  Everett  Luce  was  not  high  enough 
for  that  looking.  This  was  five  years  ago,  and 
she  supposed  by  this  time  that  he  had  gotten  over 
the  whole  affair,  and  perhaps  forgotten  Valerie 
Laudersmine. 

In  a  moment  she  knew  that  he  had  n't  forgotten 
her  when  lie  stopped  her  and  said  :  — 

u  You  remember  Miss  Laudersmine,  Mrs.  F.  ?  " 
"  Oh  yes."     And  Mrs.  F.  looked  curiously  up  at 
his  face.     It  was  cool  enough. 


Mrs.  F.7s    Waiting-Maid.  261 

"  Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  went  on,  "  that 
your  waiting-maid  resembles  her  in  some  ways  ?  " 

u  There  !  "  And  Mrs.  F.  struck  her  two  hands 
together  in  the  sudden  shock  of  thought.  "There! 
that  is  it !  I  knew  there  was  something  —  some 
resemblance  to  somebody." 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  alcove  of  the 
bay-window  in  the  hall,  and  by-and-by  Luce  said, 
with  a  wistful,  grave  simplicity  that  touched  Mrs. 
F.  greatly  :  — 

"  I  never  quite  got  over  Valerie  Laudersmine, 
Mrs.  F.  ?  " 

Mrs.  F.  said,  in  return,  some  kind,  sympathetic, 
womanly  things  ;  and  under  her  spell  he  told  her 
more  of  the  affair  than  she  had  ever  known  before, 
and  she  found  that  she  had  not  guessed  wrongly. 

"  It  is  a  long  while  ago  —  five  years,  Mrs.  F. ; 
and  I  really  thought  the  other  day  that  I  did  n't 
care,  you  know,  any  more  :  but — just  the  turn  of 
a  girl's  cheek  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  and  that 
old  nerve  I  thought  dead  goes  to  vibrating  again, 
and  it  aches  confoundedly,  Mrs.  F.,  though  I  had 
the  tooth  drawn  long  ago." 

He  laughed,  but  it  was  a  sad  little  laugh,  sadder 
than  any  sigh  to  Mrs.  F.  Half  ashamed  of  his 
confidence,  he  resumed  :  — 

"  I  believe  I  am  acting  like  a  school-boy,  or  a 
fool,  Mrs.  F.,  but  T  am  not  going  to  say  anything 
about  it  after  this." 


262  Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting- Maid. 

Mrs.  F.  assured  him  that  he  might  say  just  as 
much  as  he  pleased  about  it  to  her,  and  that  he 
was  neither  a  school-boy  nor  a  fool  iu  her  esti- 
mation for  what  he  had  told  her.  But  she  had 
something  to  say  now. 

"  There  's  one  thing  you  have  n't  thought  of, 
Major  Luce  —  perhaps  you  never  knew  the  fact. 
Valerie  Laudersraine,  when  she  was  at  Cape  May 
that  summer,  had  a  waiting-maid  who  bore  quite  a 
curious  resemblance  to  herself." 

Major  Luce's  face  was  all  aflame  in  an  instant. 
He  wheeled  round. 

"  Who  knows  "  — 

"  Exactly,  Major  Luce.  Who  knows  but  this 
girl  is  the  quondam  waiting-maid  of  Miss  Lauders- 
mine  ?  Shall  I  ask  her  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  will,  now  and  here." 

Mrs.  F.  opened  the  door  of  her  sitting-room  and 
called  "  Mathilde  !  "  Mathilde  dropped  the  flowers 
which  she  was  arranging  and  obeyed  the  call  with 
her  usual  alacrity.  And  as  Major  Luce  looked 
again  at  this  face  which  recalled  another  face  the 
nerve  he  had  fancied  dead  began  to  thrill  again  ; 
and  it  thrilled  still  more  as  he  listened  to  the  con- 
versation that  ensued.  It  was  in  French,  and  the 
girl's  voice  was  as  he  had  heard  it  a  while  before 
—  nasal  and  a  trifle  shrill,  like  her  class,  not  like 
the  dulcet  tones  of  Valerie  -Laudersmine,  that 


Mrs.  F:S    Waiting-Maid.  263 

soft-voiced  siren  who  had  sung  his  heart  away  five 
years  ago. 

"  Mathilde,"  asked  Mrs.  F.,  "  did  you  once  be- 
long to  Miss  Laudersmine  ?  " 

Mathilde  looked  open-eyed  surprise  as  she  an- 
swered, briskly,  "  Oui,  Madame." 

"  How  long  since  ?  " 

"  Five  years,"  after  a  minute's  counting  on  her 
brown  fingers,  and  with  a  stronger  nasal  than  ever. 

"  And  how  came  you  to  part  from  her  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Laudersmine  died,  and  Mademoi- 
selle Valerie  went  to  live  with  her  uncle.  It 
was  an  exchange,  Madame.  Madame  Chesang 
wanted  me,  and  offered  Celie  for  me.  Celie  can- 
not dress  hair  like  me  ;  but  Mademoiselle  Vale- 
rie is  good-natured,  so  she  took  Celie  for  me, 
Madame." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mathilde,  that  Madame 
Chesang,  who  used  to  live  in  this  house,  was  your 
mistress  before  you  came  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  And  that  Monsieur  Chesang  is  uncle  to  Miss 
Laudersmine  ?  " 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"  Did  you  come  straight  from  Monsieur  Che- 
sang's  here  ?  and  was  Miss  Laudersmine  there  ?  " 
broke  in  Luce,  in  a  slightly  nervous  tone. 

"Oh  no,  Monsieur.     Mrs.   Chesang  died  three 


264  Mrs.  F:*   Waiting-Maid. 

years  ago,  and  she  gave  me  my  freedom  in  her 
will ;  then  I  came  down  to  the  city  and  lured  out 
as  fine  laundress.  I  have  n't  seen  Mademoiselle 
Laudersmine  since,  and  I  could  n't  tell  where  she 
is,  Monsieur,"  with  a  curious,  stealthy  look  at  Luce 
from  her  piercing  eyes. 

There  was  no  more  to  be  learned  from  her  after 
this,  and  as  soon  as  possible  Mrs.  F.  dismissed  her 
back  to  her  task.  But  after  this  Luce  was  no 
more  at  rest.  He  could  never  see  the  slim, 
straight  figure,  nor  the  olive  curve  of  Mathilda's 
cheek,  nor  the  flash  of  her  dark,  brilliant  eyes 
beneath  those  folds  of  muslin,  but  it  set  his  heart 
to  beating  with  old  memories.  One  night  she 
passed  him,  unconscious  of  his  presence,  as  he 
stood  in  that  very  window-recess.  The  poise  of 
her  head,  the  undulation  of  her  movements  was  so 
like,  so  very,  very  like ! 

"  Confound  the  resemblance ! "  he  said,  under  his 
breath,  and  with  an  impatient  stamp  of  his  foot,  a 
bitter,  troubled,  vexed  face.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  after  her.  He  saw  her  pass  down  the  dim 
corridor.  He  saw  her  half  turn  the  handle  of 
a  door,  then  pause,  retrace  her  steps,  and  come 
swiftly,  softly  back.  It  flashed  over  him  in  an  un- 
reasoning sort  of  way,  just  then,  that  Mrs.  F.  and 
her  sister  were  both  away  for  the  evening ;  at  the 
same  moment  he  shrank  involuntarily  within  the 


Mrs.  F:S    Waiting-Maid.  265 

embrasure.  The  next  instant  Mathilde  flashed 
swiftly  past  his  place  of  concealment  and  entered 
Mrs.  F.'s  room.  And  why  not  ?  He  had  seen  her 
enter  at  that  very  door  many  and  many  a  time. 
Why  not  now  ?  There  was  no  reason  why  not,  to 
be  sure ;  but  a  curious  sensation  oppressed  him  as 
he  watched  her ;  a  sensation  that  was  compounded 
of  suspicion  and  peril ;  and  he  remembered  the 
same  sensation  once  before  when  he  had  first  seen 
her. 

One,  two ;  the  seconds  ticked  by,  in  audible 
throbs  from  the  great  hall  clock,  and  still  he 
waited,  watching  now  for  her  reappearance,  yet 
half  jeering  at  himself  for  the  indefinable  fancies 
that  held  him  there. 

One,  two ;  it  seemed  an  age.  What  was  she 
about  there  so  long  ?  So  long !  Pshaw,  it  was 
but  three  minutes.  Three  minutes,  in  that  time 
what  might  not  be  done  ? 

"  What  a  fool  I  am !  "  he  muttered.  "  I  believe 
I  have  been  drinking  too  much  champagne ;  I 
dare  say  the  girl  is  putting  her  mistress's  finery  in 
order." 

But  hark  !  the  door  opens ;  there  she  comes,  the 
gay  coral  ear-rings  sparkling  and  tinkling ;  a  smile 
lurking  about  her  lips,  which  parting,  hum  swiftly 
a  bit  of  the  Marseillaise.  How  like  the  maid  is  to 
her  quondam  mistress !  The  old  pang  strikes  the 


266  Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid. 

watcher  in  his  nook  as  he  sees  her ;  and  he  sees, 
too,  one  shapely  hand  thrust  into  an  apron  pocket, 
and  hears  the  rustle  of  paper,  and  is  half  ashamed 
of  himself  for  the  suspicion  that  upon  so  slight  a 
footing  gains  ground.  But  as  she  passes  out  of 
sight  he  says,  with  a  certain  dogged  resolution  :  — 

*'  I  '11  keep  an  eye  on  her  any  way ;  if  there 's 
mischief  I'll  find  it  out  —  but  I  wish  she  wasn't 
so  like,  so  very,  very  like." 

And  he  did  keep  an  eye  on  her.  Twice  that 
evening  in  the  garden  grounds  he  crossed  her  path 
with  the  careless  pretext  of  smoking.  Twice  he 
cut  off  her  egress  from  the  private  gateway.  At 
the  last  she  turned  with  a  gesture,  and  half  an 
exclamation  that  was  impatience  and  disappoint- 
ment all  in  one  —  the  impatience  and  disappoint- 
ment simply  of  a  foiled  coquette. 

"  Possibly  no  deeper  errand  than  to  meet  her 
lover ;  "  but  as  he  made  this  inward  remark  he 
sighed  satisfaction  as  he  saw  her  flit  up  the  stair- 
way before  him.  By  and  by  the  Colonel  and  his 
wife  and  Miss  Vescey  came  in.  It  was  early 
yet,  and  a  storm  brooded  in  gusty  sobs  about  the 
house  ;  it  brought  damp  and  chill  into  the  wide 
rooms,  and  Mrs.  F.,  shivering  under  the  influence, 
besought  them  to  adjourn  to  her  smaller  boudoir, 
where  Heckla  should  kindle  a  fire  upon  the  hearth. 
Thither  they  went,  and  while  Heckla,  sable  servi- 


Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid.  267 

tor,  kindled  a  blaze  which  sent  out  aromatic  odors 
of  cypress  and  cedar,  Miss  Vescey  brewed  a  bever- 
age whose  scents  were  of  spices  and  wines.  The 
scene  so  home-like  and  simple  dispelled  all  fancies 
and  suspicions,  but  still  there  was  the  possibility, 
and  the  Major  told  his  story.  The  Colonel,  shrewd 
soldier,  was  alert  at  once,  listening  intently  and 
gravely  ;  but  Mrs.  F.,  nettled  at  any  'distrust  of 
her  favorite,  made  jest  of  the  whole  aifair.  It  was 
only  some  little  French  love-mottoes  Mathilde  was 
after,  probably ;  she  herself  had  told  Mathilde 
where  to  find  them ;  or  it  might  have  been  a  re- 
cipe for  a  cosmetic  Madame  Droyer  had  bestowed 
upon  her,  a  most  wonderful  recipe  for  the  hands ; 
and  Mathilde  had  a  passion  for  concocting  messes  ; 
and  very  likely,  too,  it  was  the  young  Creole  who 
kept  the  drug-shop  round  the  corner  whom  Ma- 
thilde was  seeking  at  the  gateways. 

Major  Luce  felt  excessively  annoyed  at  Mrs. 
F.'s  annoyance ;  annoyed  and  a  trifle  disturbed  at 
this  jest-making. 

Miss  Vescey,  cognizant  of  all  this,  tried  to  dispel 
it  with  the  breath  of  a  little  song,  airily  chanted 
over  her  foamy  distillation.  A  little  French  song, 
whose  English 

"  Heart,  heart  of  mine, 
Why  dost  repine?" 

could  scarcely  give  the  impassioned  aerial  grace  of 


268  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid. 

the  original,  which  he  had  heard  before.  But  it 
was  the  same  lovely  tune ;  and  he  could  imagine  as 
he  bent  his  head  away  from  the  singer,  and  dipped 
his  mustache  into  the  warm  sparkle  of  the  spiced 
wine  frothing  up  in  his  glass  —  he  could  imagine 
Valerie  Laudersmine  singing  to  him  one  summer 
night  as  they  rowed  down  the  river  for  lilies.  Five 
years,  and  the  lilies  were  all  dead  long  ago  —  and 
Valerie,  perhaps  she  too  had  followed  the  lilies. 
A  sharp  pang  pierced  him.  Dead !  he  had  not 
thought  of  that.  Dead  —  all  that  life  and  bloom 
and  beauty ! 

He  looked  up  suddenly  ;  it  was  a  whisper  through 
the  song  that  caught  his  ear  —  just  a  "  My  shawl, 
Mathilde,"  and  there  she  stood,  for  once  uncon- 
scious, for  once  rapt,  away  and  apart  —  betraying 
herself.'  There  was  wistful  depth  in  her  eyes, 
there  was  melting  sweetness  on  her  lips,  as  if  she 
might  then  be  singing  softly  the  old  French  song :  — 

"  Heart,  heart  of  mine, 
Why  dost  repine  ?" 

A  little  tinkling  crash,  a  start  and  exclamations, 
while  Mrs.  F.  moved  her  violet  silk  from  the  scene 
of  accident,  and  then  they  all  fell  to  laughing  over 
the  Major's  preoccupation. 

"Or  was  it  Julia's  song?"  bantered  the  Colonel. 

"  Yes,  it  was  just  that  —  Miss  Julia's  song," 
with  a  single  glance  at  Miss  Vescey,  which  cost 


Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid.  269 

Everett  Luce  all  his  self-command ;  for  over  it 
flashed  another  glance,  startled,  yet,  unafraid,  which 
seemed  to  plead :  "  I  trust  you  ;  you  will  not  be- 
tray." 

And  while  the  others  laughed  and  bantered  he 
bent  down  to  the  fragments  of  his  glass  upon  the 
floor,  unheeding  the  reminder  of  Mrs.  F.  that 
Mathilde  could  perform  that  service ;  and  bending 
there,  his  hands  touched  hers,  and  he  knew  that 
perhaps  he  held  her  life  —  Valerie  Laudersmine's 
life  —  in  his  keeping.  Valerie  Laudersmine  !  All 
this  time  it  had  been  Valerie  Laudersmine,  and  he 
had  not  known.  At  first  a  thrill  of  delight,  swift 
and  unreasoning,  at  her  simple  presence ;  then  fear, 
anxiety,  foreboding,  and  suspicion,  which  deepened 
into  horror,  at  the  fate  that  might  be  —  that  must 
be  —  closing  around  them.  He  drew  a  deep  breath 
at  the  thought  that  he  had  betrayed  her ;  for, 
knowing  now  that  it  was  Valerie  Laudersmine, 
he  knew  no  step  of  hers  was  purposeless  in  that 
house,  nor  that,  left  alone,  she  did  other  work 
than  her  own.  What  thwarted  purpose  was  that 
in  the  garden  then  ?  What  noiseless  errand  in  the 
room  beyond?  And  he  had  betrayed  her!  Be- 
trayal —  what  did  it  mean  ?  And  this  betrayal  was 
assuredly  of  wrong  and  misdoing,  of  treason  and 
conspiracy  !  What  did  his  loyalty  command  him 
to  do  but  to  betray  all  treason  and  conspiracy? 


270  Mrs.  F:S    Waiting- Maid. 

His  brain  reeled  with  these  questions,  and  his  pulses 
throbbed  dizzily,  while  still  he  bent  there  in  such 
dangerous  neighborhood,  and  still  the  laugh  and 
bantering  jest  went  on,  and  no  one  but  they  two 
conscious  of  the  tragic  undertone. 

"  Curious  creature  she  is ! "  remarked  the  Col- 
onel, as,  the  fragments  gathered  up,  Mathilde 
moved  stately  from  the  room. 

"A  faithful  creature!"  interluded  Mrs.  F.,  with 
a  little  breath  of  malice.  "  See  how  she  mends 
this  old  lace,"  holding  up  a  web  of  Valenciennes. 

"  Lace  ?  And  how  about  that  gold-lace  on  my 
coat,  Mrs.  F.,  which  this  '  faithful  creature '  was 
to  rejuvenate  with  her  wonderful  fingers?"  asked 
the  Colonel. 

•'  How  about  it  ?  it 's  like  new.  You  could 
never  tell  the  broken  thread ;  but  look  and  see 
for  yourself  in  the  wardrobe  in  your  loom." 

He  came  back  with  it  on  his  arm,  and,  looking 
at  it,  fell  into  praises  which  satisfied  even  Mathilde's 
mistress. 

"And  the  papers  in  the  inner  pocket  I  told  you 
of,  you  put  in  my  cabinet,  I  suppose,  as  I  sug- 
gested ?  " 

"No,  not  in  the  cabinet;  it  was  that  day  I  AYUS 
ill  in  my  room,  and  I  dropped  them  in  my  writing- 
desk  ;  or  Mathilde  did  for  me." 

The  eyes  of  Major  Luce  threw  a  startled,  fearful 


Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid.  271 

glance  across  the  table  ;  and  there  was  something 
in  the  answering  glance  of  his  superior  that  fully 
met  it.  Just  a  moment  of  waiting,  then  the  Col- 
onel rose  again.  Mrs.  F.  looked  up  from  the  con- 
templation of  her  slippers  on  the  fender. 

"  Wait,  and  I  '11  send  Mathilde  for  the  desk, 
Tom."  But  the  Colonel  had  disappeared,  and  pres- 
ently returning  bore  in  his  hands  a  little  escritoire 
of  gilt  and  inlaying. 

"  The  key,  Tom  —  underneath  there.  Don't  you 
remember  the  small  secret  drawer  outside  for  it  ?  " 

It  was  but  a  second  that  turning  of  the  key, 
that  lifting  of  the  lid ;  but  in  the  brief  time  what 
length  of  fear  and  dread,  what  fainting  horror,  pos- 
sessed him  who  watched  and  waited  from  the  other 
side  of  the  little  table,  where  still  Miss  Vescey 
brewed  her  posset  and  hummed  her  song.  But  the 
song  was  coming  to  an  end,  no  more  to  be  resumed 
that  night.  It  broke  off  suddenly,  in  the  turning  of 
a  note,  at  a  new  note  in  her  brother-in-law's  gay 
voice. 

"Kate,  Kate!  what  have  you  done?"  It  was 
not  only  displeasure,  but  it  was  the  sharp,  swift 
tone  which  bursts  forth  at  only  one  crisis  —  that  of 
peril  or  its  anticipation.  Then  in  an  instant  dis- 
may seized  upon  the  group  there  —  in  an  instant 
they  all  knew  what  had  happened,  that  Major 
Luce's  suspicions  had  come  true  ;  but  still  in  anx- 


272  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid. 

ious  voice  Mrs.  F.  cried,  "  What  is  it  ?  what  have 
I  done,  Tom  ?  " 

44 It  was  that  plan  of  Gerritt's,  Major,  the  whole 
line  of  attack,  and  the  present  disposition  of  our 
men  in  complete  drawing ; "  but  the  Major,  before 
the  Colonel  had  spoken  more  than  the  first  half 
dozen  words,  had  disappeared. 

He  would  save  her  yet  from  question  or  trial. 
If  he  reclaimed  the  lost  paper,  what  more  for  all 
loyal  purpose  was  needed  ?  If  he  reclaimed  it ! 

Down  a  wide  hall,  as  he  went  out  of  Mrs.  F.'s 
boudoir,  he  caught  the  echo  of  a  footstep.  Follow- 
ing it,  the  flutter  of  a  light  garment  led  him  on,  and 
on,  still  on,  though  a  maze  of  doorways  and  pas- 
sages until  the  fever  of  pursuit  and  delay  nearly 
maddened  him.  Then  a  voice  —  was  it  Mrs.  F.'s  ? 
—  far  off  at  first,  then  coming  nearer,  called  "  Ma- 
thilde,  Mathilde!" — then  other  footsteps,  other 
voices,  when  suddenly  a  breath  of  the  storm  blew 
coldly  in  from  an  opening  door,  and,  following  on, 
he  found  himself  in  the  garden  grounds,  out  in  the 
wild  tempestuous  night.  A  late  moon  was  strug- 
gling up  through  flying  clouds,  and  by  its  fitful 
light  he  discerned  what  he  sought.  There  she  fled 
down  the  narrow,  tortuous  pathway  which  led  to 
the  river-gate.  A  moment  more  and  he  held  her 
in  his  grasp  —  a  moment  more  and  he  was  speak- 
ing to  her  vehemently,  almost  incoherently,  calling 


Mrs.  F.'s    Waiting-Maid.  273 

her  "  Valerie  ;  "  imploring,  beseeching,  command- 
ing in  a  breath.  At  the  first  words  she  knew  the 
danger;  yet  the  reckless,  adventurous  spirit  which 
had  incited  her  on  to  the  part  she  had  undertaken 
still  had  possession  of  her.  A  strange  exultant 
look  gleamed  from  her  eyes. 

"  Well !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  the  breathless  pause. 

"  The  papers  !  give  me  the  papers,  Valerie !  then 
go  free,  and  God  help  you !  "  he  cried. 

She  seemed  to  start  at  the  solemn  passion  of  his 
tone ;  but  immediately  her  voice  rang  steadily  in 
answer :  — 

"At  the  foot  of  the  garden,  by  the  river-gate, 
under  the  lion's  head,  there  is  a  receptacle  for  let- 
ters—  a  cleft  in  the  granite  that  will  admit  your 
hand*  I  dropped  the  packet  there  an  hour  ago  — 
an  hour  hence  it  would  have  been  beyond  your 
reach,  if  you  had  not  prevented  my  egress  from  the 
grounds  ;  and  so  you  checkmate  me  again,  Sir." 
She  stepped  forward,  as  if  to  go,  but  still  his  de- 
taining hand  lingered  on  her  arm. 

"  Well,  am  I  to  go  free,  Sir  ? "  in  haughty  ac- 
cents. 

What  fate  was  it  that  held  that  moment  ?  There 
was  no  shadow  of  doubt  of  her  in  his  mind  as  she 
spoke ;  he  believed  she  spoke  only  simplest  truth, 
and  that  in  the  cleft  of  granite  he  should  find  what 
he  sought ;  but  some  bitter  pang  of  parting,  some 


274  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid. 

anxious  fear  for  her  welfare  in  the  wild  and  dreary 
night  made  him  hesitate  perhaps. 

u  But  how  can  you  go,  where  can  you  go  alone, 
Val  —  Miss  Laudersmine,  at  this  hour  ?  " 

Again  his  tone  seemed  to  touch  her;  and  she 
lifted  wistful  eyes  a  moment  and  answered  gentler 
than  before  :  — 

"  I  have  friends  who  wait  for  me." 

As  she  spoke,  the  wind  rising  in  a  fresh  burst,  a 
branch  of  the  cypress  under  which  he  stood  struck 
suddenly  against  her.  Unprepared  for  the  blow, 
she  lost  poise,  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  but 
for  her  companion.  As  he  caught  her,  something 
slipped  from  her  hold  and  rustled  to  the  ground. 
The  moon  came  sailing  up  and  showed  him  what  it 
was  —  a  slender  packet  sealed  with  red  wax.  Good 
Heaven  !  how  well  he  knew  it !  And  how  bitter 
the  recognition  now ;  yet  what  Providence !  As 
he  stooped  to  take  it  their  eyes  met. 

**  Yes,  I  deceived  you,"  she  exclaimed  bitterly, 
but  with  the  bitterness  of  defeat  solely.  "  I  told 
you  it  was  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  when  I  held  it 
here  in  my  hands.  I  meant  to  have  gained  time, 
as  you  see :  an  accident  prevented  me." 

She  stood  as  if  waiting.  She  had  deceived  him. 
In  how  much  more  might  she  not  even  now  be  de- 
ceiving, misleading,  and  betraying  ?  What  was  she 
to  him  ?  The  woman  whom  he  loved.  But  there 


Mrs.  F:S    Waiting-Maid.  275 

was  something  else.  There  was  his  country  and 
his  honor !  Suddenly  his  mind  cleared,  and  a 
divine  resolution  possessed  him. 

"  Valerie  —  Miss  Laudersmine,  you  are  my  pris- 
oner." 

The  next  instant  lights  gleamed  from  the  open- 
ing doors,  footsteps  and  voices  rang  —  a  confusion 
of  question  and  exclamation  and  wonder.  It  seemed 
an  age  to  Major  Luce  that  he  stood  there  with  his 
hand  closed  over  Valerie  Laudersmine's  slight  wrist, 
until  the  soldierly  figure  of  Colonel  F.  stood  be- 
fore them.  At  the  first  glance  the  Colonel  saw 
the  whole  —  the  double  identity,  the  deep-laid, 
thwarted  purpose,  and  the  pang  of  discovery.  In 
another  moment  he  saw,  too,  how  much  loyalty 
and  honor  meant  with  Everett  Luce,  as  he  noted 
the  firm  yet  gentle  hold  of  detention,  and  the 
stern  sorrow  of  his  face  as  he  handed  him  the 
packet. 

And  Valerie  Laudersmine  was  a  prisoner  in  the 
house  where  she  had  fraudulently  served.  She 
uttered  no  complaint,  she  made  no  protest,  she 
showed  no  sign  of  repentance,  and  none  of  anxi- 
ety through  it  all. 

Quietly  and  even  tenderly,  for  the  sake  of  her 
youth  and  her  sex,  and  perhaps,  too,  for  the  sake 
of  the  brave  fellow  who  had  so  painfully  proved 
his  loyalty,  the  examination  was  carried  on,  and 


276  Mrs.  F:*   Waiting-Maid. 

the  final  judgment  awarded.  It  was  certainly  gen- 
tle judgment,  that  sentence  of  banishment  up  the 
river,  upon  an  unwilling  parole  d'honneur.  Gen- 
tle judgment  for  her  sin  ;  but  she  received  it  with 
the  same  cold,  haughty  apathy  that  had  intrenched 
her  from  the  first. 

"  I  alwiiys  thought  her  heartless  —  always,"  com- 
mented Mrs.  F.,  with  a  pained,  half-frightened  face, 
after  their  last  interview. 

"  And  to  think  we  should  have  been  so  deceived 
by  a  little  disguising !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Vescey  ; 
"  but  there  never  was  such  an  actress  as  Valerie 
Laudersmine.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  she 
played  in  Mrs.  Althorpe's  private  theatricals,  and 
how  Charlie  Althorpe  raved  about  her  !  " 

Heartless  and  an  actress !  Perhaps  they  all 
judged  her  with  this  judgment  except  one,  who 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  even  harsher  judg- 
ment. But  he,  as  those  dark  eyes  were  lifted  to 
his  for  the  last  time,  realized  what  divine  possibili- 
ties were  lost  in  the  warping  realities  of  her  edu- 
cation and  associations,  and  what  she  might  have 
been  if  all  her  life  had  not  been  spent  under  an 
unnatural  rule,  where  every  selfish  whim  was  fos- 
tered, and  every  idle  wish  indulged.  Looking  into 
her  eyes,  he  said  no  word  of  reproach,  but  only 
with  sad  earnestness,  — 

"  Good-by,  Valerie." 


Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid.  277 

She  dropped  her  hand  in  his  ;  it  was  icy  cold, 
and  her  haughty  voice  faltered  a  little  in  reply- 
ing:— 

*'  You  have  done  your  duty,  Major  Luce,  and  I 
honor  you  for  it." 

In  an  instant,  by  that  glance,  by  that  faltering 
tone,  he  knew  how  near,  yet  how  far  apart  they 
were ;  and  he  knew  that  when  they  parted  it 
would  be  forever.  But  he  had  done  his  duty,  and 
she  honored  him. 

To  Mrs.  F.  he  said,  one  day  :  — 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  overlive  this,  and  perhaps  at 
some  time  be  a  happy  and  contented  man,  with  al- 
together another  future  than  this  that  I  thought 
possible  once  ;  for  neither  men  nor  women  give  up 
their  lives  at  one  disappointment,  however  great, 
unless  they  are  weak  or  wicked." 

This  was  good  and  true  philosophy ;  but  it 
sounded  a  little  too  matter-of-fact  and  cool  to 
Mrs.  F.,  who  remembered  so  vividly  the  sad  pas- 
sion of  love  which  had  broken  up  into  every  word 
and  look  a  little  while  since  from  this  now  quiet 
speaker.  She  had  not  fathomed  Everett  Luce 
yet. 

"  He  is  n't  a  fellow  to  make  a  fuss  about  any- 
thing, but  he  is  one  to  hold  on  to  a  feeling  or  a 
purpose  a  long  time,  Mrs.  F.,"  commented  tha4, 
lady's  husband. 


278  Mrs.  F.'s   Waiting-Maid. 

And  Mrs.  F.  realized  how  true  this  was  as  time 
went  on  and  found  Major  Luce  untouched  by  all 
the  bright  eyes  and  winning  smiles  that  lavished 
their  sweetness  upon  him. 


THE  RIBBON  OF  HONOR. 


HE  night  was  very  cold,  and  we  had  drawn 
up  around  the  fire  —  an  open  fire  of  sea- 
coal,  which  the  size  of  the  room  rendered 
necessary,  even  when  the  furnace  was,  according  to 
Patrick,  "at  the  top  of  its  hate."  We  were  a 
small  party  —  my  cousin,  and  my  cousin's  wife,  her 
sister,  Patty  Emerson  —  a  dark-eyed,  Castilian- 
looking  girl,  whom  you  were  constantly  naming,  in 
your  imagination,  Seiiora  Inez,  or  Dolores ;  any- 
thing but  the  commonplace  "  Patty,"  to  which  she 
really  responded — and  Major  Howith,  an  English 
friend  of  my  cousin's  and  a  charming  person,  easy, 
jovial,  and  sympathetic,  and  with  a  background  of 
personal  history  which  dated  from  the  Crimea. 

With  myself  we  made  just  five,  a  group  unequal 
as  to  whist,  but  quite  equal  to  a  much  livelier  pas- 
time —  story-telling.  The  Major,  good  fellow,  had 
"  opened  the  ball "  with  a  "  thrilling  tale  "  or  two 
from  his  Crimean  experiences,  and  then  for  the 
first  time  we  discovered  that  he  was  one  of  those 
heroes  who  had  won  the  Victoria  cross.  Patty's 
eyes  glistened. 


280  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

"  Oh,  to  think,"  she  cried  out,  "  that  we  here  in 
America  have  gone  through  such  a  war,  have  had 
such  splendid  heroes,  and  not  a  national  badge  or 
a  ribbon  of  honor  to  crown  and  specialize  our  spe- 
cial heroes !  " 

My  cousin  —  who  was  himself  something  of  a 
hero  in  the  war,  and  whom  we  all  called  the  Colonel, 
when  we  did  not  more  affectionately  and  irrever- 
ently style  him  "  Cousin  Jim  "  —  at  this  point  gave 
utterance  to  an  exclamation  which  at  once  aroused 
our  interest. 

"  What  is  it,  Colonel?  —  there's  a  bee  buzzing 
in  your  bonnet,  that 's  certain ;  and,  as  I  've  told 
all  my  stories  for  to-night,  you  might  as  well  open 
up  your  budget,"  put  in  Major  Howith.  We  all 
joined  in  this  invitation,  or  suggestion,  and,  after  a 
minute  or  two,  my  cousin's  pleasant  voice  was  tell- 
ing the  story  of  the  evening,  —  the  story  of  "  THE 
RIBBON  OF  HONOR." 

"  You  remember  Melroe  ?  "  he  began,  glancing 
at  us  three  ladies.  "  He  was  the  brightest,  gayest 
little  fellow,  this  Melroe,"  addressing  himself  to 
Major  Howith,  "  the  life  of  my  regiment,  and  he 
had  won  his  captaincy  though  he  was  but  three- 
and-twenty.  The  night  before  his  last  battle,  I  rec- 
ollect, was  a  specially  merry  evening  all  round, 
owing  to  Melroe's  wit  and  humor  and  drollery. 
Dalzell,  of  the  Fifteenth,  and  Melroe,  had  a  tent 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  281 

together,  and  Hoyle  and  the  two  brothers  Archy 
and  Cam  Browne,  together  with  myself,  were  in- 
vited in  that  night  to  a  little  supper  of  Mel's  giving. 
I  recollect  perfectly,  as  I  went  in,  seeing  Mel  roe 
bending  over  the  oysters  which  he  was  cooking 
upon  a  spirit-lamp.  He  was  great  at  all  those 
things,  and  Cam  Browne  was  running  him  as  only 
Cam  Browne  could.  '  You  've  missed  your  voca- 
tion, Mel ;  you  should  have  been  apprenticed  to 
Soyer/  Cam  was  saying.  '  You  always  had  a 
knack  at  that  kind  of  messing  ;  and  I  remember,' 
turning  to  the  rest  of  us,  '  when  he  came  a  little 
urchin  to  school ;  and  he  actually,  at  that  tender 
age,  had  furnished  himself  with  sundry  tin  cups 
and  various  conveniences  for  brewing  messes  ;  and 
he  was  forever  at  it.'  As  I  heard  this  I  recalled 
the  first  time  I  met  the  youngster  myself.  I  was 
at  the  same  school,  one  of  the  seniors,  and  he  was 
a  little  chap  not  yet  turned  into  his  teens,  very 
fond  of  play,  very  fond  of  his  tin-cup  business,  and 
very  much  afraid  of  ghosts.  I  used  to  meet  him 
running  down  the  corridors  after  dark.  And  once, 
I  remember  very  well,  when  we  were  all  in  our 
rooms  and  the  lights  were  being  put  out,  how  a 
little  white  face  looked  in,  and  a  little,  shaky 
voice  cried,  '  King,  will  you  lend  me  your  tooth- 
ache-drops ? '  I  questioned  the  boy  :  '  Got  the 
toothache,  Mel  ?  '  '  No,'  he  answered,  '  but  Morty 


282  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

has.'  '  So  you  braved  the  ghosts  for  Morty's  tooth- 
ache,' I  returned,  viciously  ;  '  and  what 's  more, 
to  my  thinking,  the  cold.'  I  told  him  I  did  n't 
think  I  should  crawl  out  of  my  warm  bed  on  such 
an  errand,  and  that  Jack  Frost,  the  very  whitest 
ghost  he  ever  saw,  was  waiting  for  him  in  that  en- 
try. The  little  chap  flared  up  like  a  rocket.  *  Do 
you  think  I  'd  let  a  chap  have  a  toothache  for  all 
the  ghosts  in  the  world  ?  '  he  cried  out  passion- 
ately, winding  up  with,  *  Oh,  I  hate  you,  big  boys ; 
you  're  all  so  selfish ! '  I  tried  to  mollify  him  by 
offering  to  light  him  back,  but  he  snatched  the 
drops  and  banged  the  door  in  my  face  ;  and  I  heard 
him  running  down  the  dark  corridor,  gasping  every 
inch  of  the  way  for  fear  of  the  ghosts ;  and  I  know 
of  this  little  man's  lying  awake  for  hours  one  night 
with  his  own  toothache,  which  he  bore  rather  than 
brave  the  dark  corridors  !  I  told  this  story  just 
as  I  am  telling  it  now  to  the  fellows  that  night 
in  the  tent,  as  we  all  stood  and  watched  Mel  roe 
at  his  oysters.  I  had  a  special  reason  for  tell- 
ing it.  I  knew  very  well  that  not  a  man  in  all 
the  regiment  was  so  little  understood  as  Holland 
Melroe  —  perhaps  so  little  appreciated.  His  es- 
timate there  that  night,  with  those  who  liked  him 
heartily,  too,  was  of  a  gay,  good-humored  fellow, 
who  took  his  soldier's  life  as  easily  as  was  consis- 
tent with  a  good  deal  of  laziness,  and  a  little  shrink- 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  283 

ing  from  any  active  service.  I  felt  sure  that  I  read 
him  better  than  this,  and  that  beneath  this  exterior 
of  laziness  and  shrinking  there  lay  noble  qualities 
of  courage  and  valor.  As  I  finished  my  story  that 
night,  Dalzell  called  out,  *  You  ought  to  have  had 
a  medal  for  overcoming  your  dragon,  Mel.'  *  Or 
a  cordon  bleuj1  Cam  Browne  suggested.  From 
that  they  all  fell  to  talking  of  the  foreign  system  of 
badges  and  medals  of  honor,  and  one  of  the  young 
men  pulled  out  of  his  pocket,  I  recollect,  a  i  Corn- 
hill  Magazine,'  and  read  to  us  Thackeray's  Rounda- 
bout paper  '  On  Ribbons.'  The  final  summing  up 
of  the  talk  was  in  great  agreement  with  Thackeray, 
and  the  general  conclusion  that  we  ought  to  have 
a  'ribbon  of  honor,'  'not  simply  a  Kearny  cross, 
but  a  grand  cordon  bleu,  or  a  medal  coming  straight 
from  the  heart  and  hand  of  that  grand  old  fellow, 
Abraham  Lincoln,'  Dalzell  burst  out.  '  Of  course 
we  're  all  too  modest  to  ever  expect  to  be  decked  in 
that  way,  but  how  many  of  us  would  disdain  it?' 
he  concluded.  • 

"  As  the  talk  deepened,  Melroe's  face  had  lost 
its  gayety,  I  noticed.  He  drew  a  deep  sigh  as  Dal- 
zell spoke,  and  a  wistful  look  came  into  his  eyes. 
I  could  guess  pretty  well  how  it  was  with  him. 
What  was  he,  beside  them  ?  What  brilliant,  or 
courageous,  or  soldierly,  or  spirited  qualities  had 
he  ?  These  men  would  easily  win  their  cordon 


284  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

bleu,  for  they  were  without  fear.  Without  fear  ! 
That  was  what  was  in  his  mind,  as  he  very  shortly 
confessed,  by  a  blundering,  honest  question  bearing 
directly  upon  the  subject.  How  did  it  feel  to  be 
without  fear  ?  Every  man  of  them  knew  of  this 
little  white  ghost  of  Melroe's,  yet  every  one  of  them 
knew  that  he  never  had  failed  to  do  his  duty.  They 
had  laughed  quietly  together  over  it,  and  said :  '  Mel 
is  a  good  fellow  ;  he  never  will  run  away,  but  he 
will  never  distinguish  himself  —  that  is  certain/ 
And  now  suddenly  with  his  question  arose  another 
with  them  :  How  came  he  here  into  this  voluntary 
service  with  this  characteristic?  But  before  asking 
it  they  answered  his  query,  one  and  another  smiling, 
yet  serious  and  truthful. 

"  At  their  first  battle  ?  yes,  it  had  been  a  shock, 
and  then  it  was  over.  Various  emotions  assailed 
them  now,  but  none  of  fe&r.  But  how  was  it  with 
him  ?  they  asked.  They  all  knew  something  how 
it  was,  as  I  have  said,  but  not  wholly,  until  he 
burst  out  impulsively  :  — 

"  <  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  boys,  I  will  own  that  I 
am  awfully  afraid  every  time,  to  this  day,  and  I 
can't  get  over  it.' 

"  '  But  how  came  you  here,  anyway,  with  that 
feeling,  and  being  here  why  do  you  stay  ? '  asked 
Cam  Browne. 

"  For  a  moment  there  was  a  look  of  surprise  on 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  285 

Mel  roe's  face,  —  a  look  as  if  he  doubted  whether 
he  had  heard  aright. 

"  '  How  came  I  ? '  he  uttered,  slowly  ;  '  how  could 
I  stay  at  home  ?  A  man  can't  choose  at  such  a 
time.  If  I  saw  an  assassin  enter  my  friend's 
house,  while  he  lay  sleeping,  I  might  be  very  much 
afraid  of  the  assassin,  but  I  could  n't  very  well  go 
on  my  way  in  safety,  and  tell  some  other  man  to 
go  forward  to  the  rescue.  I  might  recoil  from  the 
encounter,  but  I  should  recoil  ten  times  more  from 
the  skulking  away,  from  it.  No,'  he  went  on,  '  I 
thought  this  all  over  ;  I  knew  it  would  hurt,  —  this 
kind  of  life,  —  but  I  concluded  it  would  hurt  a  great 
deal  more  to  turn  my  back  upon  it.  Why,  believ- 
ing as  I  do,  you  know,  a  fellow  could  n't.'  I  can 
see  Hoyle,  and  Dalzell,  and  the  two  Brownes,  ex- 
change glances  here.  They  two,  ay,  and  every  one 
of  them  there,  I  knew,  thought  of  the  story  of  the 
boy  at  school,  even  then  manfully  fighting  his 
ghosts  for  his  principle.  Those  of  us  who  had 
smiled  at  this  ghost,  and  said,  *  Mel  is  a  good  fel- 
low ;  he  never  will  run  away  but  he  never  will 
distinguish  himself  —  that  is  certain,'  now,  in  con- 
templation of  this  courageous  cowardice,  felt  in- 
clined to  doff  our  hats  to  the  simple,  manly  fellow 
we  had  underrated,  and  to  ask  his  pardon.  But 
there  was  little  said  in  acknowledgment  or  praise  ; 
it  was  a  tender  subject,  involving  this  foregone 


286  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

lighter  estimate ;  but  there  were  warmth  and 
friendliness  in  the  *  good-nights,'  which  conveyed 
to  him  a  sense  of  sympathy,  an  assurance  to  his 
modest  mind  that  he  had  not  spoken  too  freely. 
I  remember  Cam  Browne  said  laughingly  as  he  left 
the  tent,  *  After  all,  Captain,  you  may  win  your  cor- 
don bleu  before  any  of  us  yet.' 

"  They  were  light  words  spoken  hastily,  out  of 
the  warm,  kind  heart  of  the  young  officer,  as  a 
good-natured  remark  to  evince  his  belief  in  that 
moral  courage  that  he  admired. ,  Light  words,  and 
even  while  they  were  being  spoken,  perhaps  fate 
was  weaving  that  destiny  which  should  make  them 
no  longer  light  words  in  the  memory  of  us  who 
listened  to  them. 

"  The  next  day  we  fought  the  battle  of  Chancel- 
lorsville.  Toward  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  when 
defeat  was  beginning  to  stare  us  in  the  face,  after 
the  earlier  promise  of  victory,  which  combined  and 
splendid  action  and  the  most  untiring  gallantry  had 
given,  I  received  a  message  from  Major  Dalzell  to 
send  a  reenforcement  to  the  left  wing,  where  Cap- 
tain Melroe  and  himself  were  endeavoring  to  hold 
their  ground  and  save  their  colors.  I  had  only  a 
handful  of  men  that  I  coufd  ill  spare,  but  I  sent 
them  immediately,  for  I  knew  that  Dalzell  would 
not  have  applied  for  help  unless  he  had  great  need. 
Immediate  action  being  suspended  for  a  time  on  my 


The  EMon  of  Honor.  287 

right,  I  had  a  brief  opportunity  to  observe  the 
movements  of  the  left.  As  I  looked  through  my 
glass,  I  saw  Dalzell  advance  with  his  column,  not 
a  large  body  of  men,  but  compact  and  in  order. 
A  heavy  roar  of  musketry  met  them  ;  still  they 
kept  on,  though  I  could  see  that  the  raking  fire 
had  told.  The  next  charge  was  more  fatal.  As 
the  smoke  cleared,  the  lamentable  effect  was  ob- 
vious. More  than  one  gallant  fellow  had  fallen  ; 
among  them  their  leader,  Dalzell.  The  column 
began  to  waver.  The  consequence  at  this  particu- 
lar point  of  a  panic  and  a  rout  would  be  especially 
disastrous.  I  rose  in  my  saddle  with  my  excite- 
ment. '  Ah,'  I  thought,  '  if  I  could  only  dash  for- 
ward to  the  rescue  ! ' 

"  At  that  moment  I  saw  that  a  new  leader  had 
arisen.  I  saw  him  rush  forward,  I  saw  him  glance 
back  to  the  broken,  wavering  ranks,  I  saw  him 
beckon  them  on  with  his  sword,  and,  more  than 
all,  by  an  attitude  of  command  that  impressed  me 
even  then.  At  sight  of  him  the  wavering  ranks 
closed  in,  and  dashed  forward,  with  a  shout  that 
reached  me  where  I  watched,  and  which  I  knew 
meant  victory  or  death.  A  few  moments  later  the 
Sixteenth  came  up  to  reenforce  the  right  wing,  and 
I  had  the  liberty  to  ride  forward.  Melroe,  —  for 
you  have  guessed  that  he  was  the  leader  who  took 
Dalzell 's  place,  —  Melroe,  by  his  magnetic  leader- 


288  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

ship,  his  dash  and  spirit,  had  saved  his  colors,  and 
won,  for  his  men  at  least,  a  famous  victory,  one  of 
those  side-issues  of  success  which  go  far  to  amelio- 
rate the  greater  defeat. 

u  But  it  was  a  victory  I  did  n't  feel  much  like 
rejoicing  in,  as  I  saw  Melroe  himself  lying  on  a 
little  hillock,  shot  through  the  heart.  The  color- 
sergeant  —  a  little  Irish  fellow  —  had  dragged  him 
to  the  upland  where  he  lay,  and  as  I  approached, 
he  took  off  his  cap,  more  in  honor  to  the  dead  than 
to  me  and  said  chokingly  :  — 

"  '  See  that,  Colonel ;  he  seized  'em  out  of  my 
hand  as  I  was  tuk,  dizzv-like,  with  this  scratch  on 
my  forehead,  and  when  I  came  to  myself,  he  had 
got  his  death  a-saving  of  me  and  the  flag,  sir.' 

'•  The  little  sergeant  had  laid  the  colors  upon  the 
dead  breast  of  his  officer  as  tenderly  as  a  mother 
might  strew  flowers  upon  her  child.  Cam  Browne 
just  then  joining  me,  I  pointed  to  the  sad  spectacle. 
Cam  bent  over  and  touched  the  tattered  remnants 
that  meant  so  much,  and  had  cost  so  much.  '  He 
has  won  his  cordon  bleu!'  he  said,  significantly. 
Yes,  he  had  won  his  cordon  bleu,  the  brave  little 
fellow,  fighting  a  double  enemy  every  inch  of  the 
way."  The  Colonel  paused  a  moment,  and  took 
out  an  old  memorandum-book  ;  opening  it,  he  drew 
forth  something  that  seemed  of  many  colors,  a  strip 
either  of  paper  or  silk,  only  a  few  inches  in  length 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  289 

and  breadth.  "  This,"  he  resumed,  "  is  a  piece  of 
that  cordon  bleu.  It  was  wet  with  his  blood  when 
I  took  it,  and  I  have  kept  it  ever  since,  for  I  knew 
no  one  else  who  was  nearer  to  Melroe  than  myself, 
for  he  was  an  orphan,  and  without  brothers  or  sis- 
ters. If  he  had  had  a  sweetheart,  I  would  have 
sent  it  to  her,  that  she  might  have  known  what  a 
hero  she  had  lost  in  this  young  fellow,  whose  deli- 
cate, sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  conflicts 
which  his  great  soul  urged  him  into.  I  have  seen 
many  brave  charges,  many  forlorn  hopes  carried, 
since  that  day,  Howith,  but  I  never  saw  a  braver 
charge  or  a  more  forlorn  hope  carried  than  this 
that  led  Melroe  to  his  death.  We  mourned  Dal- 
zell,  good  fellow,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
loss  of  Melroe  that  went  beyond  every  other  loss. 
We  loved  him  better  than  we  knew,  and  when  we 
buried  him  there  every  one  of  us  recalled  that  sen- 
tence of  his,  '  I  might  recoil  from  the  encounter, 
but  I  should  recoil  ten  times  more  from  the  skulk- 
ing away  from  it.'  " 

A  momentary  silence  fell  upon  us  all  as  the  Colo- 
nel ceased.  But  as  he  closed  his  memorandum- 
book,  shutting  in  the  strip  of  blood-stained,  faded 
silk,  a  voice  broke  the  silence  :  — 

"  James,  give  it  to  me  —  Holland  Melroe's  cor- 
don bleu  !  " 

"  You,  Patty  ?  " 
19 


290  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

"  Yes,  to  me,  James,"  Patty  answered,  quite 
steadily,  though  white  as  the  dead. 

Mechanically,  perhaps  instinctively,  the.  Colonel 
held  out  the  sacred  memento  without  a  word.  But 
the  Colonel's  wife  had  no  such  delicate  instinct  of 
the  truth. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Patty  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  mean,"  returned  Patty,  with  great  dignity, 
"  that  I  have  a  better  right  to  Holland  Melroe's 
cordon  bleu  than  any  one  else  !  " 

"  O  Patty  !  and  all  the  time  you  were  "  —  But 
Mrs.  King's  discretion  at  this  point  came  back  to 
her;  it  was  too  late,  however,  to  serve  her  pur- 
pose. 

"  Yes,  Emily  ;  all  the  time  I  was  engaged  to 
Morton  Eames  !  But  you  know  who  brought  me 
into  that.  It  was  scarcely  my  own  doing,  and  Hol- 
land Melroe  never  sought  me  after  he  discovered 
that  my  word  was  passed  to  another.  But,  before 
he  discovered  this,  I  knew  his  heart  and  mine. 
When  I  got  news  of  his  death  I  broke  my  en- 
gagement to  Morton,  but  I  could  not  go  talking 
about  Holland  then.  I  had  no  right  to  tell  the 
truth  then  who  could  not  tell  it  before,  —  who  had 
to  be  told  by  death  what  the  whole  truth  meant 
even  to  myself." 

By  this  time  we  had  all  been  brought  up,  as  it 
were,  to  Patty's  revelation  —  all  but  Mrs.  King.  I 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  291 

noticed  vaguely  that  she  looked  disturbed,  and 
glanced  uneasily  at  Major  Howith.  But  for  that  I 
should  have  forgotten  his  presence,  yet  even  then 
he  did  not  seem  an  intruder,  stranger  though  he 
was.  The  Colonel,  always  fond  of  his  little  sister 
Patty,  as  lie  called  her,  found  new  cause  for  ten- 
derness now.  She  had  been  Melroe's  sweet- 
heart —  Melroe,  whom  he  had  loved  ?  And,  lean- 
ing forward,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her. 

The  next  morning  I  got  the  meaning  of  Mrs. 
King's  disturbance.  She  came  into  my  room,  with 
the  words  :  — 

"  Just  think  of  Patty's  making  such  a  mess  of 
it ! " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  inquired,  thoroughly 
amazed. 

"  Oh  dear !  what  do  I  mean  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  Major  Howith  was  immensely  pleased  with 
Patty?  And  now,  just  for  that  old  sentimental 
nonsense  being  dragged  up,  it  will  fall  through,  for 
he  is  not  the  man  to  play  second  fiddle  to  any  other 
man,  dead  or  alive.  And  it  would  have  been  such 
a  match  for  Patty ! "  wound  up  the  fascinating  but 
worldly  Mrs.  King. 

I  turned  upon  her  all  the  vials  of  my  wrath. 
Patty  had  come  out  most  nobly,  and  she  ought  to 
be  ashamed  if  she  could  n't  appreciate  such  nobility, 


292  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

I  declared.  But  I  did  no  good ;  she  only  reiterated 
her  regrets  at  Patty's  "  mess,"  not  a  whit  disturbed 
by  my  vials  of  wrath.  In  this  iteration  she  was 
cut  short  by  her  husband's  voice,  as  he  came  in 
from  the  little  library  which  communicated  with 
the  room  we  occupied. 

"  Emily,  you  don't  know  men  quite  as  well  as 
you  think  you  do,  my  dear.  When  I  went  into  the 
smoking-room  last  night  Major  Howith  joined  me  ; 
and  what  do  you  think  he  said  to  me?" 

"Well,  what?"  inquired  Mrs.  Emily,  making  a 
little  impatient  movement. 

"  He  said  that  if  Patty  was  to  be  won  by  any 
living  man  he  should  try  his  best  to  win  her.  You 
see,  my  dear,  your  way  of  looking  upon  things 
does  n't  always  fit  the  case  and  the  people.  Howith 
is  a  man  to  appreciate  just  such  silent  endurance 
and  faithfulness  as  Patty  revealed,  and  he  does  n't 
believe  that  her  heart  is  forever  buried  in  Mel  roe's 
grave  any  more  than  I  do.  It  was  my  story  of  Mel 
that  made  everything  fresh  and  living  to  her  again. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Emily,  don't  you  talk  this  over  to 
Patty  —  not  a  word,  mind,  or  you  may  never  have 
Major  Howith  for  a  brother-in-law !  " 

Mrs.  Emily  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  can  keep  a  secret  when  I  like  as  well  as 
Patty,  and  I  '11  keep  this  ;  and  I  'm  glad  your  senti- 
ment has  turned  out  better  than  my  sense  this  time, 
Sir !  "  she  retorted,  gayly. 


The  Ribbon  of  Honor.  293 

Her  husband  laughed,  too ;  but  he  looked  at 
her,  I  thought,  a  little  sadly,  as  he  replied :  — 

"  Ah,  Em  !  perhaps  you  will  see  some  time  that 
our  sentiment,  as  you  call  it,  is  better  than  your 
sense." 

But  she  never  will ! 

It  was  four  years  after  this  conversation — four 
years  almost  to  a  day  that  I  went  down  to  the 
St.  Denis  one  bright  morning  to  call  upon  Mrs. 
Felix  Lundy  Howith,  who  has  just  arrived  from 
England  on  a  three  months'  visit.  Before  I  left 
her,  a  sweet-faced  English  girl  came  bringing  in  a 
sweet-faced  half-English  and  half-American  baby 
of  two  years,  though  he  looked  for  all  the  world 
as  much  like  a  young  Castilian  as  his  dark-eyed 
mother. 

"  And  what  is  his  name  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Holland  —  Holland  Melroe  Howith.  Felix 
named  him,  and  he  would  have  it  so.  Was  n't  it 
superb  of  him  ?  But  Felix  is  superb  —  you  never 
saw  such  a  man,  dear,  as  Felix !  " 

I  told  my  cousin,  the  Colonel,  of  this  conversa- 
tion. He  looked  at  his  wife,  that  pretty,  light-nat- 
ured,  fascinating  little  Emily. 

"  Here  's  our  sentiment  against  your  sense,  Mrs. 
Emily.  You  see  how  well  it  works." 


294  The  Ribbon  of  Honor. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  she  answered  ;  "  but "  —  laughing 
in  our  faces  —  "  I  was  right  in  one  thing :  I  told 
you  the  Major  was  n't  the  man  to  play  second  fiddle, 
and  he  is  n't.  He  assigns  that  part  to  his  son,  you 
see!" 


